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Cannonball Statman
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The Virgin Mortician
In droves, materializing from all directions, on twice volcanicized thrice frenetic avenues;
in homicidal evergreen tree idols, streets once devastated by smiles,
in death, in birth, in flawless execution, in suicide in the virgin mortician's marathon mind, in trash heap remains of his virginity in Virginia, in New York, in conspiracy.
As in, he fought the law, and it was a war. The law is a broken record in the optical illusory record store,
and I'm in love with the way that he spoke, Find more lyrics at ※ Mojim.com with the crumple in his face, and the cool in his fate, and the clock in his stomach, and the knuckles on his forehead, and the blood on his teeth, and the freeze in his brain, and his breast in his breast, the trash heap heap trash bang anti-paradiddle; the lightning pricked my tongue my gun the smoke dribbled down his gun done done.
He was gone within a year, but everybody saw him; oh, you mean the virgin mortician?!
I mean the virgin mortician; I'm in the virgin mortician!
I'm in the mortician.
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