| I am looking for the holes
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| The holes in your jeans
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| Because i want to know
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| Are they worn out in the seat
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| Or are they worn out in the knees
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| There are so many ways to wear
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| What we’ve got before it’s gone
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| To make use of what is there
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| I don’t wear anything i can’t wipe my hands on
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| Do your politics fit between the headlines
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| Are they written in newsprint, are they distant
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| Mine are crossing an empty parking lot
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| They are a woman walking home
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| At night
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| Alone
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| They are six string that sing
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| And wood that hums against my hipbone
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| We can’t afford to do anyone harm
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| Because we owe them our lives
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| Each breath is recycled from someone else’s lungs
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| Are enemies are the very air in disguise
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| You can talk a great philosophy
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| But if you can’t be kind to people
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| Every day
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| It doesn’t mean that much to me
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| It’s the little things you do
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| The little things you say
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| It’s the love you give along the way
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| When we patch things up
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| They say a job well done
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| But when we ask why
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| Where did the rips come from
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| They say we are subversive
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| And extreme, of course
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| We are just trying to track a problem to its source
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| Because we know we can’t sit back
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| And let people come to harm
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| We owe them our lives
|
| Each breath is recycled from someone else’s lungs
|
| Our enemies are the very air
|
| Our enemies are the air
|
| We are looking for the holes
|
| The holes in your jeans
|
| Because we want to know
|
| Are they worn out in the seat
|
| Or are they worn out in the knees |