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I've learned to like the smell of gasoline I've learned to speak in faulty prose I've learned to like the sound of metal grinding I've learned to live with what I chose And I've learned to hate the lucky ones Those that did what they were told They never lost their concentration They couldn't wait 'till they got old I burn I can't remember why I came here I can't remember if I stayed Its hard to find the perfect rhythm When you lose the urge to play I burn |
