It felt good to be nothing- nobody. I stepped out to look at the mountain side and as the cool breeze passed by me I woke up inside. I felt completely AWAKE at the thought that I was in a place where I knew no one and no one knew me. Of course it couldn’t last because I would have to go back home tomorrow afternoon. But I reveled in the moment. Soaked it up and knew that I would have to experience this feeling again. It was too good not to.
Painting the other cardboard box was for a much better cause this time. It was the pervert purple. I will never forget the first time I heard the expression “pervert purple.” We knew the old man I was forced to sell my property to was registered and he told me just after the purchase was final the reason why. The fact that I had a seven year old daughter living next to that made my blood boil. I could have made him move out, cancelled the transaction, even sue him. I called the police dept. to see what my rights as a property owner were. Non it turned out. He was not liable to tell me anything. Only his parole officer and the police department had to know who and where he lived. He had the right to live next to any children on earth. Just not next to a school or institution that housed a lot of children. So that was that. I had to such it up and accept the fact that I had sold what I thought was my million dollar view to a man who had raped a 16 year old girl. He was 65 at the time. He had gone to prison for a short time and felt he had paid his dues; but somehow he had decided that it was the girl’s mother’s fault, who just happened to be his girlfriend at the time. I always wondered if there were others. Maybe even his own daughter, who had passed away of some unknown disease at a premature age. Besides the fact that he made a few improvements on the place and made the neighborhood look better and direct deposited my payments every month; he simply did not exist to me. I didn’t like him and that was that.
My daughter knew about the man. I don’t know if I told her or she overheard me speaking about it. But we had already had the “stranger danger” talk so it was fine that as we were passing by the purple shed one day– that had been that color for a couple of years because as he had told me “he had mixed some paint to cover the shed and he wasn’t sure if the shade turned out looking very good or not” —she lets the words flow out of her little mouth something to the effect, “hey Mom did you know that purple is the color that represents pervs?” The paint was running low in the small can I had bought on clearance, but I had to stretch it. I watered it down a couple of times. All of the pervert purple had to go now that I had my property back. For the little girl he raped, for the little girls who had just moved out who may or may not have been violated, for my baby girl, and for me. I made it all the way to the last shutter (or on a time can the shutters are tin of course) and the paint can was dry. One little 2 inch spot remained purple. I could go down and get my Martha Stewart kit of paints or some of the other small enamel colors and match it close enough. I had to fight a nest of wasps for the final spot on the latter and had already been stung earlier at the back of the place, where some of the purple was on the back porch. It was hot out. My body was aching by this time. Still that was not the reason I left it. It was a sort of reminder. A scar if you will. It would stay until maybe some day it was painted again.
It has been over a year since I have spoken to my little brother. It feels awful. Neither one of us is ready. I worry so about him and his drinking. If the narcissistic mother wanted to keep the two of us separated she had finally done it. Her golden child is drinking himself into oblivion and I work my crippled ass off. But I’m glad he moved out of our rental and took that bunch with him. The shock of the mess they left–roaches, dirty underwear and all has worn off now. Only determination to reach the finish line remains. And the emptiness of the place he used to have in my heart. Never would I have dreamed that he and I would end up this way.

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Gilmore Girls

The Gilmore Girl’s is still on. This was as far as I could make it after the past two days. Thank God! It was the only comfort I had today. I can watch the life I want with witty Lorelai and sweet Rory and be comforted. I thought that when I got a degree I would get more respect as a human being. I would get a good job with good insurance and doctors would say “oh she is educated we will pay more attention to her and we will fix her.” I was so looking forward to setting up my 2nd grade class room and they would be my students for 8 weeks while their teacher was out on maturity leave. This would be the start of my new career. This would be my finale. I would retire teaching. Instead I was told not to come back because these little second graders just happened to decide to take over the classroom and make me look bad. Dreams and hopes crushed, rain to start out the day, I came home after dropping my daughter off at school in our broken down jeep and starred at the lady on the 700 club. Oh did I mention the electric was cut off next door that runs our well so we sit here with no water to top everything else off. As she sincerely prayed over the lost and showed how they had made a well for a little girl somewhere far off who got sick from drinking out of the river. I imagined being in her immaculate house, where she probably has one of those fancy refrigerators that has the water and ice dispenser and is probably stainless steel. I have been in a few very rich folks houses before. I could almost smell the stale cleanness of it.
Now I feel just all washed up. I still have the same pain that I have suffered for 15 years. This is somewhere I have never been. I have been able to keep my spirits up through all of this. And by “this” you would just have to read the book to know what that is. There was so much talent, intelligence, and natural flare in my life. Now that my daughter is about to leave to start her life, there is really no reason to keep this up. She shirks almost everything I try to do with her. Clothes, hair, food was noting coming from me. I lost her somewhere along the way with everything else. Last week I wanted to put music with my songs. I wanted to sew my designs. I wanted to keep trying wit her. Today I do not even want to live. So here I exist with the “Gilmore Girls” in front of my face until the episodes go off and I will sleep in my depression. My daughter is not Rory and I am not Lorelia as I had seen us before.

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Jewel of Africa

“They took me out of my beautiful Africa. My home where I was one with nature and spoke the language of the trees, the sky, the moon, the river, and yes even the snakes and the beasts of the wild. I hunted for my food and ate from the land. Celebration in handmade clothes of silk over many wonderful things–under many full moons– that the Great Creator made. We painted our faces, my people and me, to match the colors of the country and danced to the music we made with our whole hearts and drums in the cool air of night to please the Holy Spirit. Our land was rich in a way that was not rich to others. We did not know this. We did not know greed and hunger. Only pureness.

So they came and took our beautiful Africa and divided us against our brothers and sisters and forced us to kill our own and the oneness of our country was no longer. Weapons of steel exchanged for priceless gold and jewels. Our souls for their gain. Scattered about here and there only to be treated worse than the animals that we once hunted.  Now the hunter became the hunted and the hunter still chases the hunted not even realizing it is his own life at he seeks to kill. How I long for her–my country –while I sit in this new world and hear the distant cries of my people, who do not know they are my people. Still I wait for them to remember who we were before that vile spirit chased them down and how we were created as one in my beautiful Africa.”

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Your Cremation

“The body will be cremated tomorrow.”  Cremated……..the word echoed in my mind. Burnt, melted, charred, crispy fried….cremated. Hair, skin, nails, eyes, hands. Hands, hands, hands, hands. No not the hands! “You may keep some of the ashes if you like.”

Why hands?  Your hands is all I can think right now. Not your curly locks of hair or even your beautiful blue eyes or nice plumps lips.  The hands of the body that is being cremated. They have attractive, half moon nails, and are smooth skinned hands. The hands I had held and that had held mine so many times. It was the hands that built our house.The hands that stroked my hair. The hands that touched my body all over. Hands! Oh not the hands.

It was different when they put Gramps in the casket and buried him. Forty four years is a long time to know somebody and I didn’t even cry at the funeral until they played “Taps” and lowered him into the ground; but I didn’t think about the body-except I wanted to lay on the ground on top of him for a while. He would be there for a while. All chloroformed up.

Now with your cremation it is different. Not because we were married and had a different type of relationship. And I can’t even explain it. But from then on every time I hear the word cremation I think……hands.

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#Blahblahblog Toilet paper

So here I am trying to blog again. This is so crazy but not as crazy as my mother–God love her. I decided I would try and save the dying runt pup, so I take off to Wal-Mart at 9:30 to get one of those little puppy bottles and some formula. You must understand that nothing else is open around here after 9 pm so it’s late for this small town.
I do not get a buggy because I’m broke anyway and I don’t want to grab too many things. First thing that catches my eye is some of those plastic “summer” plates for a dollar. Quickly I decide on aqua–matches a few things in the kitchen. Next, I decide I must have some chips to go with the recently made dip at home. Grab the pet milk and head to the pet isle. I see the little bottles for $2.97 –as opposed to the hard medicine dropper I have in the drawer left over from years ago before the child was old enough to take pills–it seemed the only kindest thing to do. Now I’m heading towards the toilet paper isle. First I see 66 cent rolls. Hey that’s cheap! I grab one of the limp packages and realize it isn’t worth it. That 66 cents is gonna be gone in no time and I’ll be right back in the same isle again next week. Proudly I get the fluffy, more expensive stuff and round the corner to see a young man pushing a huge crate of dog food. He sortof smurks and with no one in the store hardly I have time to slow down, look at myself and think. “Toilet paper. It is the one thing we all have to have every single day of our lives. Doesn’t matter who you are or what your job is or how much money you have you still gotta wipe your ass.” Yep that slowed my steps down a bit. Who was I to be high steppin with my 2 dollar four pack of angel soft. I tucked it under the rest of the stuff and went towards the chocolate isle. I need this I whined to myself like a spoiled child. Up at the checkout, I run into someone I know. “What are you doing?” she asks. “Oh, getting chocolate,” I say proudly plopping the toilet paper down on the counter. We continue our conversation all the way to our vehicles–toilet paper forgotten until I get home and have to go to my bathroom where the roll is completely empty. What is my point of this stupid story? I guess that I think we should all remind ourselves that we are human and practice humility every day. It takes a conscious effort for some of us who like to fly.

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#Blah Blah Blog

I am going to start a blog so I am testing the waters to see if this site will work. I still don’t know what types of things we will be talking about but it will be interesting to the people to whom it is interesting to. So, bear with me as I make a total ass of myself. Feel free to boo, laugh, or curse me if you want. So here it goes. Testing 1,2,3.

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“Blessed Be The Ties” (I’m still throwing out junk I wrote a few years ago-working it out)

“Burning Bridges”
By Dana Grantham

The fire hissed unmentionable things as I listened intently to every word until it puffed out a big cloud of smoke at me. Something else was smoking too and smelled like burning rubber. I looked down to see my shoe was starting to catch on fire. Next would be my head, with all of its wicked and wrong thoughts. As I had been watching my life burn, I wondered if the rest of the small crowd gathered in my brother’s back yard were watching it burn too. I looked around to see that they were; including someone’s small child who was sitting in my lap and whose eyes held steady the reflection of the flames. I clutched tighter the beer I had been holding for God knows how long now. I took a long hard swallow for the sake of not wasting the brand name someone else had paid for; and for the sake of the child in my lap and my new baby niece who was inside asleep in her crib and for my own lost soul. The rest of the beer I used to save my only pair of shoes. A good pair of shoes they were too. They had gone for miles with me on my wretched drunken adventures and would continue on for many more miles (until the new puppy years later.) I didn’t deserve them. They were expensive and had a good soul—much too good to carry around the shell of a person that was in them.
My brother was only twenty three and an honor college student. Now he has a ready- made family by this bitch I have to be nice to, even though I don’t like her. I was two years older than he was and I had already dropped out of college to become a full blown alcoholic and slut. I loved the attention and power I got from having sex. There seemed to be an understanding that it was only for one night and in the morning they would have to leave. I never took money for my favors, just the satisfaction of knowing I had given them something that they couldn’t give me in return (feeling).
This new guy I met says he’s really in love with me though, and I can’t seem to shake him. I thought he was beautiful from his down-turned, thick lips to his nine inches (measured exactly) of perfect penis. I moved two states down with him and lived on “love” for two years. Don’t look back, some of the heads that didn’t burn said, and I never did. We nearly froze to death and burned up in an old mobile home Alex paid the rent on with his job at the liquor store. I got bored and began noticing an old church house for colored people (by colored I mean black, but in Louisiana it’s hard to tell). It was just across the road. It seemed they went to church a lot and stayed for a lot of hours so I got brave enough to walk over one Saturday when they were having church. I got “the spirit, “as they called it, somehow. All I knew was that I was changed forever.
Open the window and breathe again. The butterflies are dancing around that bush I planted that I don’t know the name of, still. They say everything is just fine in their world. Why can’t everyone be like them? Just minding their own business, spreading their beauty through lives is all they have to do. I see the ugly stumps that the bulldozer left on the property next door of this developing neighborhood and I wonder when the men will be back to finish their job. They left a lot of beer cans on the stumps. I’ll probably have to burn them myself less they should be in my view forever.
Shut the window now. Get that ugly outside world gone. I hate it when I can’t take it anymore. Everyday it’s the same mess: that half drank cup of coffee from this morning, still sitting on the desk; the same pile of dirty laundry and bills; feed the damned cat; take the child to school; feed the child; love the child. I see my poor pregnant cat, loaded to the gills, like she’s about to pop. I see she’s distressed so I place my tired body in the floor beside her, rub my hand over her tummy and feel baby kittens fighting. She gives me a look and I understand completely. I stroke her furry tummy some more and assure her that this will never happen again. I am suddenly renewed with energy and feel like I can conquer the world again. I look at the red devil eyes telling me it is 10:52, with the dot on the PM and I smirk at them. I still have a lot of homework to do (imagine going back to college after all of these years; with all of these grown-up responsibilities.) I didn’t care. I had found a pool of knowledge and I drank every bit I could hold. So, the red devil eyes got me anyway, three hours later, screeching horrible things louder and louder in my ear. Reality hits harder every day. Sometimes I wonder why in the hell I’m even here or if I am here. I feel invisible at times. Only two more semesters, I remind myself. Right now a job at McDonald’s was looking pretty good compared to all of this school work. I stuck my head all the way out the window at the drive through one day and peered inside to see what my job would be–even though I knew they wouldn’t hire me. No experience.
That was the worst whipping I ever got from my Daddy. Actually it was the only one that I really remember besides that other one that I think I got but if I did I don’t know what it was for. This one I remember because of the horrible circumstances that surrounded it. First of all I had an accomplice, my favorite cousin, who would have to suffer consequences with me. We tried to outrun our crime on our bicycles that we were just learning to reach peddles on; but they caught us. One of my Mother’s brothers—not the one we stole the matches from—the one with the shiny new mustang– came up and put the fire out with a shovel as he laughed at us, somewhat proudly, I thought, and puffed on his cigarette. Daddy had come to pick me up after work and was looking at the smoking chair sitting next to the house that my two uncles and grandparents lived in. I could see he was getting the thorough explanation when I approached. He was pulling off his belt. I was shocked. He was terribly mad or he whipped me for showing he was sorry I had done this awful deed. Either way it must’ve hurt something awful because I wanted my Mommy and I could never remember wanting her before.
Now what was that they said about chronological order? I let a clump of grass burn around the pear trees before spraying it out with the water hose and lighting another one. It had gotten too tall last year after the third lawn mower had broken down. I was proud of my small pear orchard. I may have to live on them one of these days. I had known a little about writing before; but now things had changed. Why did I have to pick this minor of all things? Well it wasn’t really that I picked it. It was the only one left, so here we were in our first semester of “writing” and I was already running out of bullshit. Too much reality had crept in since that famous story I had written in fifth grade. The last story I wrote included the death of a relative and it actually happened. Well, we could all see it was coming, but still. It was starting to make me wonder what these writing classes were doing to me. It was coming to the point where I almost couldn’t distinguish what was real from what I just thought was real. I noticed the dog talking one day—in his own language of course— and thought perhaps there was a story there. I’m sure there was—a best seller probably– but I couldn’t pull it out of my ass just then.
I began to feel like a walking novel with all of these writing classes. The flowers danced in the wind…..were quivering under the cold rain drops……said good morning with their sweet scent. Why did I hate pansies so much? At least I could remember their name. Maybe that’s why I hated them—the name alone. Or maybe it was the fact that they could bloom through a snow storm that I resented them so.
No one called anymore. I had quit drinking and being a slut after my two year trip out of the state with poor Alex, who thought he loved me. I had learned my lesson, but it seemed no one else I knew had. I had been back for three years, working hard as a secretary, in a good paying job; but couldn’t stand the sexual harassment from the boss so I moved on. I was such a fanatic now about Jesus and doing the right thing and all of that good stuff but no one wanted to hear it.
I must’ve been on that couch for a month now. Being an apartment manager was gravy work. I didn’t really realize how stagnant I had become until Ray stopped by one day. I heard the rake scratching outside around the sidewalks. Finally, I peeped out the blinds to see that he had already lit a pile of them and was chatting with the old man who lived next door. He later explained that in the old days (at least in the South) that raking or sweeping was a way of showing respect when someone had a death in the family. Lord knows I could use some help anyway. He wondered in and popped open a beer so close to my face that the spray hit my top lip. I still didn’t move.
“You know what you need?” He finally blurted. I wondered if my horoscope had said anything about an unwanted visitor today. I gave up on horoscopes too. Some things they just couldn’t predict. Like the fact that your only sister was going to be murdered by a date rapist and thrown in some pond where cows probably shit and piss. (Woops, I hope that didn’t really happen; but it probably did, at least in a round- about way.) I pulled my dead body and soul up a little straighter. Ray and I had been friends for so long we didn’t really have to speak—almost like kin. He had lost one of his brothers to AIDS, so I trusted he knew some of what I was going through.
“Come on, get off your ass!” he said, grabbing another beer out of his small cooler and pointing it at me like a loaded gun. I just looked at him, without moving and he set the beer on the coffee table and plopped down beside me on the couch. How did I ever get to be such friends with such a loser? And don’t touch me you stupid asshole were some of the thoughts I was having right about then.
“Put your high heels and mini skirt on and let’s hit the dance floor. It’ll do you good.” Well, he gave it his best shot. God bless him. I told him there were no good bars around here anymore and I didn’t do the VFW and besides I had quit drinking.
“It’s New Year’s Eve and you’re going! There’s going to be a good rock band there.” He protested. I started thinking about Memphis and ZZ Top and Lynard Skynard, Bob Segar, and all the rest—some better than others and I really questioned his “rock band.” There was no threat of going out with Ray. He was ten years older than me and had already had his heart broken, was scared of women, and I’m pretty sure hated his mother. He wasn’t gay though and he was a pretty good dancer for a straight guy and a real good listener. How he managed to be this way I did not know. We had a blast at the party, where I saw a different side of him. Afterwards, back at my apartment, we fell into it on the couch before I knew what was happening. So was the end of my three year celibacy and with Ray! We would go out again two years later for my thirtieth birthday, and that is when I met my future ex-husband, Bryan. Ray suddenly turned into this person I didn’t know. Even though he knew we would never be an item (he was too fucked up in his mind to be an item with any woman) he was acting jealous! I had to tell him, though, and everyone else that this man was it for me. He was THE ONE. The words bar fly, loser, liar, and everything else all meant nothing to me. Everyone was just jealous that they hadn’t found this perfect chemistry that I had found with Brett. Besides, there was no way I could have resisted. He had that kind of thick, unruly head of hair that I adored, he made love to me like I was the only woman in the world, and my biological clock was ticking. Perfect.
Bryan didn’t mean to set the neighborhood on fire. He was an idiot though, if I do say so myself. We didn’t know that someone had put an aerosol can in the trash during our Christmas feast. I was still bummed out that his family had come and it was my first time doing the meal at my place and I forgot to serve the drinks and his grandmother had to fix my gravy that was going the wrong way. When you lived out in the country and burned your trash in a barrel in the middle of a dry February, with the wind blowing like crazy, in a yard surrounded by a grass field, an aerosol can is your worst enemy. I mean anybody would know that.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I said. “It’s awful windy today.”
“Oh hell, what are you worried about?” famous last words. When it exploded, I had never seen fire go in so many directions at once. I picked up a nearby pan of water and dropped it, as I saw the raging flames begin to engulf our yard and head across the path. I ran in to see if there was anyone home at 9-1-1 in this poe dunk town. There was indeed one fire truck but two other fires on the loose right at the moment. Time for battle. The neighbors began moving cars out of their driveway. We managed to save their house with a wet mop from their front porch, two rakes, and I think someone took off their shirt. The flames licked me good on my exposed neck. I ran in the house to grab the baby, who was just walking, off the middle of the kitchen table, with its mouth full of caramels.
Everyone in the entire neighborhood was standing around on the side of the road, watching this spectacle and waiting to see if the fire was going to reach that open field and eat their homes. I was amazed at the power of the blaze that wouldn’t stop. The po-dunkville fire truck arrived with just enough water to put out the circle headed towards the woods. Our new neighbor just politely asked if we minded if he got some homeowner’s insurance before we burned our trash again. It was not a good way to welcome the new neighbors but it was the beginning of a lasting, friendly relationship. Bryan and I gathered up our baby, whom the neighbor girl had been holding –with her own baby and went back in and plopped back down in our living room; exhausted. We both stared at each other for a long time with an expression that neither of us had ever had before or since. It was one of surrender, I think.
It was nearing the end of the semester that was the last one before the very last one and things were already looking bleak for finishing. News came in from various relatives that my mother was acting strangely. I drove two hundred miles to our home town to check on her. She seemed fine when I got there but the next day she came down the hallway holding a packed suitcase saying she wanted to go home—demanding to go home! Oh God. I had seen this devil before and had read about it too. It was the beginning stages of that old Alzheimer’s disease. Damn it! Well, there seemed but one thing to do at the time, since I was probably one of the main contributing factors to her on-set of mental illness. I convinced her that she should move in with me and she could use her extra money to take a trip “home.”
This lasted for several months, in which time she had set the kitchen curtains on fire, packed several suitcases, made numerous long distance calls to someone in Mississippi with the last name of Coleman, whom she was convinced, was her family, and then she began hallucinating about some men chopping cotton. This wouldn’t even make a good story for one of those writing classes. It wouldn’t even make a good story for publication. I had to drop out. I was failing algebra anyway. What did they think I was a mathematician in disguise? I could always go back to college and this was the last I would ever see of what was left of my only mother. It all ended when the now half-grown child and I walked into the kitchen one morning and she was standing there naked, pouring oatmeal on herself and demanding that we get out of her house.
The decision was final, now. She had to go into a full care facility. I took her to a local one but I knew I couldn’t stay in this town anymore. Something here was final—over and done with. After I dropped her off I came home and laid on my bed and buried myself in all of the papers I had collected from the three years in school and all the newspapers and things like that I could find and didn’t move from my trance until my baby came home from school and asked me what in the world this was for.
“Bring me the gas. I’m going to set myself on fire.” I said. I didn’t mean it but drama classes must’ve been paying off. She called her uncle Mark on her Dad’s side, crying and carrying on and told him she was scared for me.
During my stay at this new type of institution (to rest) they said, they encouraged us to write down our feelings. Keep a journal they always said in therapy. I stayed to myself mostly. So much for the psychology major. I suppose even therapists need therapists sometimes. Don’t they? I wrote some poetry to convey the bad and sad feelings I was having. One lady really liked my poetry. So, through the friend of an acquaintance’s husband, who was the president of some television studio, I got two of them turned into songs. One turned into a very bold rap song, with some curse words and the other a very sad country song. I sold them fairly cheap and gave up all copy rights. It’s okay. The bands were no names and the songs were never played on the radio; but it was enough to make a new start.
The fire hisses unmentionable things, now in a faster, more familiar tone. As I sit at the fireplace in my more comfortable home, now. I am happy with my life and my new job I got with my Associates of Liberal Arts. I think about my niece’s high school graduation coming up in a couple of months. She is such a beautiful girl—looks like my brother. I want to look as good as I can for the event. I am considering a new dress. I know I’ll cry no matter what, just like I did at her kindergarten graduation. I’m already crying. She’s acquired a few hours of college credits so she will go straight on to some University in Missouri, where she is planning on becoming a veterinarian. I can’t even imagine it or anything else to do with blood and guts. Something about the sight of it lays me out cold. I tried to overcome it but I never could.
Ray and the rest of ‘em are still around. They just sit around waiting on the first of the month for their checks, now, so they can start the party again. When no one cares about you it’s a safe place to be. They don’t have to worry about what you think about them not caring about you. I know. I’m not one for playing it safe though. That’s why I know I’ll never end up like Ray and them—even though I can see where their position deserves respect. Maybe it has something to do with that good old whipping Daddy gave me. If you’re going to burn bridges make sure you do it right—I guess is what he was saying. I would like to say more, but as it stands time and circumstances will not allow it. One day, when I have more time, I would like to tell my real story, just as it really happened.

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Dana Grantham
(With background music “Backstabbers” and similar songs?)

I already fed you and you cut my throat
It amazes me when you sit and gloat
In the schemes you pulled off for the day
I told you I don’t want to play
So you sold your soul, well mine’s not for sale
If you don’t believe that you can go to he..
Hey you better open your eyes
So you can see what’s comin your way—a big surprise
What’s the matter with you?
Take your hands off my life and you can have yours too
I’m gonna hold up my head
Pretend I didn’t hear what you said
User you think you’re so smart
Lyin, cheatin, stealin, you’ve got it down to an art.
Every time I cut you some slack
I turn around and get stabbed in the back.
User take your hand off me before things get crazy!
Chorus????? (that old song “Backrstabbers”)

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“Born To Fly”

“Born To Fly”.

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