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Way down in Toxarcana, I was ten years old,
In a fever dream, dark night of the soul.
Well, ’twas brillig and the slithey toves
I bid the world good-bye by the dead bog oaks.

Drop down in the Swampblood
I’m washed in the Swampblood
I’m washed in the blood.

Dusty bibles lead to a dirty south.
He’s sittin’ with a toadstool rotting in his mouth.
In a clearing where the bras hang down from the trees,
He’s cappin’ a coffee can full of teeth.

Down Doom’s Chapel Road, past his great grandma,
She says “turn ‘im loose, or I’ll call the law.”
He says “There’s no testimony without the test,
What we do with our own is our own damn business.”

Drop down in the Swampblood
I’m washed in the Swampblood
I’m washed in the blood.

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