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    What is left of me sits burning in the bottom of this ashtray.
    I'm an ugly mess, I'm full of it, and I'm a lame excuse for a poet.
    It really all comes down to my love for misfortune.
    A weak stomach and a mouthful of bad intentions. Watch your mouth!
    Cause I'm the son of a gun, tempt not one in love.
    I live my life by a night stand bible from a motel in limbo.
    I have a way with failure and I'm the poster child for giving up on you.
    And this lack of belief is what leaves me room for loving you.
    Relax, come on - relax and give in I was born to make you moan.
    You let her climb inside your ribs and let her tangle herself up in your bones.
    Don't think for a second, that she gives a damn.
    It's a shame you try so hard just for a girl. Who doesn't know your name or care to remember.
    And it's a shame I can't remember anything.
    I can't even recall your taste or the monster that I became.
    I've tasted death, it's graced my lips, I wanna give it back.
    But I want you bad. I want you bad. You better watch your mouth, I'm the son of a gun.

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