| My mountain is a mole hill, my throne’s a busted chair
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| This crown has turned to rust and it’s all tangled in my hair
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| This high horse that I ride on is gonna buckle at the knee
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| Upon my castle made of sand I cannot be the king of me
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| There’s the man in white, his words are painted red
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| There’s power in his blood and only truth in what is said
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| There’s the man in black with a needle in his vein
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| Lying flat upon his back this is the prayer that he once prayed
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| He said, my mountain is a mole hill, my throne’s a busted chair
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| This crown has turned to rust and it’s all tangled in my hair
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| This high horse that I ride on is gonna buckle at the knee
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| Upon my castle made of sand I cannot be the king of me
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| And this harem in my heart is filled with pot metal and fools gold
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| Once your statue turns to dirt all that’s left in the end is your soul
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| God save your soul
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| So he said shout out of control with all your heart and soul
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| Though this cold world may tear you apart
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| Let the whole world know
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| My mountain is a mole hill, my throne’s a busted chair
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| This crown has turned to rust and it’s all tangled in my hair
|
| This high horse that I ride on is gonna buckle at the knee
|
| Upon my castle made of sand I cannot be the king of me
|
| My mountain is a mole hill, my throne’s a busted chair
|
| This crown has turned to rust and it’s all tangled in my hair
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| This high horse that I ride on is gonna buckle at the knee
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| Upon my castle made of sand I cannot be the king of me
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| Lord, I am just a man
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| I cannot be the king of me |