| a broad incision sits across the evening
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| the victim to our father’s lost war
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| the restless children sit and mourn the graves
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| of those they’ve never seen before
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| will they be buried here among the dead?
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| in the silent secret
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| the pioneers
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| in dealing with it they march for dawn… of will and worthy
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| the truth be told the child was born…
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| man your own jackhammer
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| man your battle stations
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| we’ll have you dead pretty soon
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| sincerely written from my brother’s blood machine
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| man your own battle station
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| we’ll have you home pretty soon
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| awake through motion
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| with curiosity to curtain your first move
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| over arms length they’ll break protocol
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| jealous envy for the youngest one
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| to be the hero is all i’ll ask
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| can i be buried here among the dead, with room to honor me here in the end?
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| you’ll be better off too soon
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| you’ll be better of when you get home
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| for you,
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| i’d do anything just to make you happy, hear you tell me that you’re proud of me.
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| for them,
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| i’d kill anything cut the throats of babies for them break their hearts for
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| they were
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| them.
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| waiting for you to say… i love you too
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| the navigator
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| the pilot
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| her favorite
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| the one they call the vision that bares the gift
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| will,
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| do the children really understand the things you did to them?
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| and why oh why…
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| should they conjure up the will for you my love i would kill him
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| in the seventh turning hour
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| should the victims shadow fall
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| will the irony grow hungry?
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| with victory and all they sought for
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| we were one among the fence
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| one among the fence |