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Match Book Diaries (Remix)

This song is by Cecil Otter.

I love the way you took a second look into that book of matches,
With overlapping names and numbers you mistook for matches.
Mistook for matches made in heaven's workshop.
Squatting on that crooked mattress where you chose to curse god.
First sound, dirty slob.
Worse wine, aftertaste.
Said you did a clerk's job.
Jerks off and masturbates.
Now let that sink in, what you been drinking?
Come on, you gotta start thinking.
That bastard dates the first mod squad model rep to cast her baby skills,
Into his fishy bowl of masticating lady thrills.
Debating with his trainees he'll say something fascinating,
Like, "Baby, chill. Kodak moments are fastly fading."
He'll bravely swill the last of his remaining shady pills,
It's the one that killed your baby.
He said, "Maybe we'll meet again.
Most likely under the sheets and then,
We'll host the nightly hunter meets the hunted."
And then he cheats again, your family trees bend over to lend a hand.
But you've never been a fan of being a charity case.
You don't want no minute man.
But you want his burial place.
They said, "If life gives you sour grapes then make cheap wine."
Now how's that purity taste?
And it's guaranteed to make of a daring team with a therapy face,
Play eternal flame on repeat until their stereo breaks... down... the science...
Of love.

You thought we'd both go up in smoke send dual smoke signals.
You got denied, that must be why you drew both pistols.
You shot the sky and here I am catching fallen angels.

She said, "Don't bother me, I'll lose the truth.
As the man who fathered me blew up.
Walking through the trail of fists and fallen trees,
And now I'm toothless.
Besides, your just a primate.
And talking to me is useless."
I said, "You're not biting, you're barking."
And it's music to my ears.
It's music to my ears.
It's music to my ears.

I tore the wiring from a forklift,
She dropped dead gorgeous.
In a Four Seasons porch with her lips pressed against a cordless phone.
It was off the hook.
Get it?

They call this girl "But her nose".
Everything looks good,
But her nose is filled with coke.
She just won't admit it.
Get it? She took another match and she lit it.

She struck a handful of matches at the same time,
And couldn't figure which stick to drop first.
Each one got closer and it hurts now,
Ever since that draft pick got worse.
You got the first degree from each one at the same time,
They want the news and the weather.
It said you led them down the dateline,
And now your sticky fingers fuse together.
Like back in the days when she was a teenager,
Before she struck those matches.
Before she went through labor.
You could find this underager,
Double-fistin' tons of strangers.
Back in the days when she was a teenager,
Before she struck those matches.
Before she went through labor.
You could find this underager,
Double-fistin' tons of strangers.
Moms used to say, It reminded her of her.
Don't say that.

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