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Perfection in Imperfection
Imperfection is perfection
And you, restless, constrained, gift of choice
You just sit there, where you’ve always sat
In the backseat you know so well, home seems so far away now
“I don’t know, is it?” and then it starts
Cigarette after cigarette, another burn, how many more until I learn
You and I were never meant for this
But with the gust of four-chord Irish folk as I light you up that ‘one last smoke
I just don’t know
