| Late last night, about a quarter to twelve
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| In the middle of an awful storm
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| I took fright at the terrible sight
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| Of a raven flying into my room
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| My blood ran cold, my heart stood still
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| As I pulled the covers over my head
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| A minute dragged by as I opened my eyes up
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| To find her at the end of my bed
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| Then she spoke in a devilish croak
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| About herself being one of a score
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| And I felt sick at the very idea
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| Of dealing with nineteen more
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| She said, «look out your window»
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| I see a skyfull, I pull a rifle on them all
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| Pink sunrise in the wintry skies
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| All warm on the wings of a dove
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| She sinks and lands on the back of my hand
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| And sings with the voice of love…
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| «Thoughts made flesh can be beautiful things
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| As I am one of the same
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| Fed so well on the best of your dreams
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| And the beauty found within
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| But those black beasts that you see in the east
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| Are scratching on the orchard floor
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| At split, sweet fruits and the writhing worms
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| That you keep behind the straining door
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| Go to the cellar!
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| I see the beasts and they’re eating
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| Feasting on it»
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| Fill my head with small white flowers
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| Help the sweetness heal the sour
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| Draw on high religious power
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| Free the ravens from the tower |