What future's predecided for this; A
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Born to the mass production groan?
Put 'em up. Take 'em down.
Put 'em in. Take 'em out.
Poor and pathetic is my will; A
Packed away with 'my kind'
Like stinkin' sardines in a can.
Captured in my escape for freedom,
My feelings and flesh so well processed,
Forever tryin' to redeem 'em.