| Well, Benjamin
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| You crashed your plane again
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| A beautiful tailspin
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| It was going to happen soon enough
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| The only question was when
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| 'Cause I could smell the flames
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| Just sleeping on your skin
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| And I love you for the things you do
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| And I don’t care who you do them to
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| You can wrap your stupid suffering around me
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| Because I thought it out, in the time I’ve got
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| And I don’t care if I drown or not
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| I just want to crash into that same cold sea
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| On an airport «USA Today,» in a dark black ballpoint pen
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| You write, «These people are like skeletons
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| Wrapped up in perfumed skin»
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| And it’s such a stupid sentiment
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| But write it once again
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| Let your anger fill the margin
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| And I’ll kiss your shaking hand
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| 'Cause I love you for the things you see
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| And I don’t mind if you see me
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| With my wrinkled hands and glazed eyes
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| As obscene
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| You’re right in ways that you don’t know
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| And you’re untouched by the undertow
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| All that speed and anger burns your body clean
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| And I love you for the things you feel
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| So thoroughly that they turn real
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| As the sea comes rushing toward us
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| Dark and cold
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| And your rowmate, this nonentity
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| As the screams and salt sea smother me
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| Will reach out a wrinkled hand for you to hold
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| But now the landing gear is starting to unfold
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| The captain points the runway out below
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| Where the Kent account is waiting to be sold
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| And where you’re going, down there
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| I don’t know |