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I'M Sorry You'Re Just Not My (Daguerreo) Type

Writing poetry on sidewalks
and tapping this rhythm to the steps you walked away
Singing sonnets on railroads
and drumming / the number/ of tickets you bought

If touch became cure
Would loose grips become disease?
It must, because when you let go off me / I feel sick

Building high, The distance is short but I'll take big steps

and by the time i make it / alive or dead
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