Pope
parties
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Blame it on the weather; Iâm not that clever
This party isnât much fun
Every ones sarcastic wrap them in plastic
You donât need any one
Any one
The conversation lingers on the tip of a finger
The mechanisms broke
His poetry will eat you then digest you
There really isnât much hope
Isnât much hope
Well I can see you in my sleep
Your cold skin against my cheek makes me weak
Put it in ignition making bad decisions
She begins to smoke
Lights start flashing sheâs over reacting
This has got to be a joke
Be a joke
Well I can see you in my sleep
Your cold skin agents my cheek makes me weak
âYouâre making a sceneâ
Every one is clever in this arctic weather
This party isnât much fun