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Your father roars like a dinosaur
Your father's head snapped and reason was gone
He beat your mother and sent her blood to pour across the tiled floor
Your dear old dad, the dinosaur
He told you calmly, "Son, be strong.
I hate to tell you but your mother is gone.
She cut her wrists and sent her blood to pour across the tiled floor.
Your dear old mum, the wretched whore."
Your cape
Red cape
Tied around your neck, you've got a tail pinned to the waist
of your muddy torn jeans.
And a cap
Brown cap
A logic-defying helmet that shoots laser beams and crap
But you won't bend 'cause you've got superhuman strength.
A few years pass and now you're alone
And at your feet rests your mother's tombstone.
The knotted grass, a dirty brown, reminds you of that tiled floor
The horrid mess you never saw.
And the dinosaur sleeps in the same old home
The house you left for a place of your own
Same peeling walls and a sickly shining gleam of cracked tiled floor
You try to resist and temptation is gone.
Heard the ear crushing ring of the telephone
That familiar sound of your father's tone
Says he's sick of looking at the stain your mother made on that bloodied tiled floor
Says he needs some help to scrub it back to how it was before.
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There are bees, in the garden,
Hives of angry little gods - think on that,
They live little lives in little days,
Toiling three square meals away,
Only to make us all a tasty snack,
There are roaches, in the sewer,
Swarms of hungry little plebs - watch em breed,
They are members of the ninety nine,
Reviled by all of humankind,
Bound to outlive all races and all creeds,
There are beasts, called homo sapiens,
All shapes and sizes they come in - to be sure,
And so to classify their phobias,
They invent all kinds of slights and slurs,
And live out their lonely lives locked up indoors,
Hard as it is, to draw a line,
Under what exactly is divine,
On this earth we share there is eternal truth,
That truth was told by just a man,
On a stage in front of a big band,
Who played as he sang of a joyous youth,
Whoa o, Whoa o,
Babies crying in_the dark sacred night,
Whoa-o, whoa-o,'
Roses blooming under clouds of white,
There's a book, that's known to many,
From its pages many lessons have been learned,
But the fact is, folks - those pages wrought,
Destruction, death and pain untold,
Not much value from that can be discerned,
And our differences, well there are plenty,
But our similarities are more than few,
For the longest time we killed and fought,
Thinking nothing of the pain we brought,
To the people that we are and that we knew,
There are beers, in the Eski,
And there's music. playing. on. the-radio,
So-let-us indulge, inexcess-and vice ,
Don't-you-dare-to, think-you'll-live-twice,
Find some solace in the answers we all know,
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