| Behind all the rusting cranes, in the lengthening shadows of the Empire days
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| There’s a world that waits, but it’s not needed
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| In the teeming rows behind the goal — yelling for blood on the pitch below;
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| Where does all the passion go when it’s not needed?
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| Over the wire, and into the darkness. |
| .
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| Come evangelists of the Grand New Age proclaiming the future that they stole
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| Condemning the things they can’t control — just like the priests before;
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| And now I can hear them call — the ghosts of the 1914−18 war
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| Where do all the innocents go when they’re not needed?
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| Over the wire and into the darkness. |
| .
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| And the dawn it will come like blood across the sky
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| Not the way that you think, not the way that you dream
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| In the silence of God, in the fullness of time
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| Like blood across the sky — the dawn it will come — the dawn it will come
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| All still, like the pitshafts and the two-mile-down where they buried their
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| hearts;
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| Where does all the loyalty go when it’s not needed?
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| In the plastic seats behind the goal yelling for blood on the pitch below;
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| Where does all the passion go when it’s not needed?
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| Over the wire and into the darkness. |
| . |