The clock is a ring on her finger That she checks When she's out of time The cigarette's a spike In the spur of the moment Digging in her side She cuts the paper with nails And her pen is bleeding poetry Nervous from the sex that she got And the wine that she spilled On her clean, white, white sheets Like to see you, baby, All torn up inside Girl you're dead already So just let your ego die Girl you're dead already So just let your ego die Die, die, die
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