| Carry me back into the sand
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| Into the sand with the flowers and the fern
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| Old Mr. Centipede climbing tobacco leaves
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| Looking for livers and hearts for to eat
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| Cold and grey clouds staining the sounds
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| Straining the weight of a sorrowful sky
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| Wool on the trees, dust on the eves
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| The bark on the pines is worse than its bite
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| All of the lines have been lies this far, there is a feeling I must keep from
|
| you
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| The hills of nomads, we envy their lives
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| Apicture we love; |
| Hills Have Eyes
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| This old motel song you dig when you’re stoned
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| But sounds like a cheap shot when you’re sober and cold
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| But if you are as stoned as a ghost in the snow, your eyes will be blue flames
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| These lines are crawling snakes up your open legs
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| You wear them pale and fine
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| This is the line I’ll give you true as the dawn
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| While the furious eye on the sun is upon us
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| The way your breasts dance while we’re making love
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| Now that is a line penned by… a divinely guided hand
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| Tailwind carry the birds to the coast to watch the clouds roll along
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| Pollen and pitch whisper the scripture of kings in a tongue only spoken by
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| ghosts |