| Let the fall winds
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| Rattle at our door
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| And call us to the lunatic sea
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| For the pleasure games we play so easily
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| That never really make a soul
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| Details will haunt us in strange ways
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| Like snow and smoke and skeletal leaves
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| Who will resurrect us? |
| Jive, ass, and teeth
|
| One we’ve all drunk our fill of fire
|
| A strange sadness hangs around the trees
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| As if our life and times were fruit
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| Ripen too quickly into rot
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| And falling on this stinking spot
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| Tones of history ring here like a gong
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| But the pitch is bent and queer
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| Upon a beach of bones the iron orchid stands
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| And casts her cobalt gaze across the years
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| Mrs. Amelia Underwood
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| Carry my heart in your hands
|
| Jesus will shine on you brightly
|
| Into the hollow lands
|
| Now the sky, a find of fire
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| The season’s tears to ancient wine
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| A ghostly blight from godless eyes
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| The howling flames of our desires
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| Your hair tumbles like a racehorse down
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| The country hails your sky now ma’am
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| And I’m not gonna need it like the lion needs to kill
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| Cause in the lion all desire and prayer is one
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| Used to be time was upon us
|
| Carried our hearts on our sleeves
|
| Wearing the joy and the sorrow
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| Like beautiful fall-painted leaves
|
| Mrs. Amelia Underwood
|
| Carry my heart in you hands
|
| Jesus will shine on you brightly
|
| Into the hollow lands |