I became accustomed to a kind of social servitude and no one, I mean no one, could accept what I had become.
Enough to make you sick.
Get me home.
On an optimist who insists it's the simple things that crush,
There's a light on in my head and I'm thinking what I said.
Sorry doesn't seem to wash when there's truths around that I have quashed
So does that make me weak or should that make me sick?
There's a light on in my head and I'm thinking what I said.
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