
In September you are wet behind the ears Ever afternoon, convoluted, you are guarded in fear «On the radar» and it’s no wonder you just measure things in numbers When we wake up we sing the cunning sentences of record stores and radio Parts of speech that make up groups of men Inferior, when you get there you’ll waste it all on champagne and cab fare Flying colours, fade and filters seen by others And definitions depend on who is giving them
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