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The Primitives
by
Mark Lanegan
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Forget your family son The face on the clock, your foreign body The ship is just a frame Pinpoint eyes, seething decks and pain You wonder how it should be You wonder how it should go Then deny no loathsome thing Hands beyond hands beyond oblivion swing Forget your yesterdays son The face on the clock, your foreign body The ship is just a frame Pinpoint eyes, seething decks and pain
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