| Someday I’ll find your rotting bones
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| Oh my golden old friend it’s so hard to let go
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| While time is drifting like the ice in the hearts of the bergs
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| Drifting beneath the northern lights
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| Lonely is the town
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| And dark is the dusk in the city’s bloodshot eyes
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| There was hardly a sound
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| But for the feathers of vultures beating the ground
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| We are only slaves to our ghostly arms and legs
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| Dancing in our graves
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| And laying in the ruins of this golden age
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| I worked in the fields in a dignified way
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| But my pride was just another agent of decay
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| You were my song when you ripped your pretty head
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| And let the laughter fly like you were burning your bread
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| Hold the dogs at bay, your laughter was the love that ran today
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| I tried to wield a greater blade
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| But all you lions can keep your bloody pride
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| We are only slaves to our master’s memories
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| Staggering through the days to yield the seed of the golden age
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| When we were young we said we’d never play the game
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| With our handles of wine and blood stained blazers
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| Well time now has surely passed us by
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| And I remember our school but little of our crimes
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| Oh my dear brothers what were your names?
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| And what was the nature of our glorious anger?
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| The sound we fear is only our day
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| Creeping behind us to another stranger
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| We are only slaves to our distant youths and coming graves
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| Let them say I was a hard working stiff and sand of the golden age |