Sunday, January 30, 2011


Let's fret about all the little things,
Keep the past in our pockets and play around with it when were bored.
'Cause you see we'll die tomorrow,
And I've got no time to move on.
And the boy with the holes in his pockets
and wrist on his watch,
He's silly.
Where's he's going,
So busy dying.
No time for moving.

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