Training For Utopia The Art Of Killing A Copy Machine
You could never do this Remember who gave this to you I was there when you held the notepad When you committed it all to memory Only to reproduce at a fraction of the heart Stop singing my song Stop cheapening my words You haven't raised a naive foot from your cage Your lack of everything speaks volume in no words And now you point every finger at me That I haven't done my job Your working overtime with no results So now I am pointing the finge
