Pounding away in the back of my head
Until I’ve almost lost myself
And those red and black patterns
In which nothing happens
Have made me sleep
A beautiful voice is a nail
Being pulled out of wood
Carry on little hammer
You were always my favourite toy
When the world’s dead to me
In my soft ? ? ? fortunate cushion of pins(? )
Is a soldier
Slicing thin(? ) through(? ) thin(? )
The unfortunate truth sneaking in
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