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Your Little Suburbia Is in Ruins

Open those eyes, wake from peace

Orders are some favorite color

Same old, same old is their battle cry

Why don't we keep searching for a new flavor?Our hearts have become a routine

Worthy kings have broken backs for nothing

Unless we cherish all with prideThe lines on our face will turn

Into canyons of sorrow instead of hope

They didn't die from the cold without

But they died from the cold withinAnd I just can't stop denying

That our brothers are in miserable pain

Stop short, lend a hand and break the chains

Of regularity that you lean so closely upon

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