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Leaning on a Razor bleary morning blues slide me down into the morning after: sunlight pounding through gritty windowpanes, takes pleasure in shaking me and making me taste my wooly mouth. Ainít no shower clean enough to shed my midnight skin, and the one I got only drums me into syncopation with this dayís rhythm, so howís a guy supposed to wake up? Visine implanted eye-socket deep, but my eyes match Mary: bloody as hell. And the white-hot wisdom that eluded me last night, throbs forgotten through the back of my head. Let my beard grow: Iím in no mood for leaning on a razor.
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