Over and over,
nothing has changed.
A token gesture,
a face rearranged.
There's peeling skin on this facade where the handyman can't reach.
No one cleaned up my backyard while I was at the beach.
An oil rig where the hill's hoist used to be.
And the astro-turf horizon beckons me.
You met the
Johnson.
Mинуs!
There's no need to stand.
Alan Simpson will mortgage the sand.
This constable in fashion made a choice in navy suits,
protecting businessmen with sewn-on sides of concrete boots.
Managing director grooms his son,
warns that he just can't trust anyone.
As they shake hands, they smile,
see the dear black crocodile.
And overload.
And overload.
And overload.
As they shake hands, they smile,
see the dear black crocodile.
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