I find your footprints here in snow, fresh and broken.
Will your lawyer fragment me, talk to Jesus private tonight.
Will belief set me out of chains, battery acid, free?
Life here is a urinal.
Search moon-eye in lonely sea feel swim of exile, sandpaper spots on skin, do not torture me.
Even devil in hell has his standard, private harvest, his jukebox baby.
Jesus suffers with the poor feels lonely in distant planets shares visions of the moon.
Let me drive you home truck tracks, then you left footprints in snow.
Do you hear sounds on the radio, jukebox baby?
I copy over, print remains, over footprints in snow.
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