| South of the rivers mouth
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| Migration slopes slowly towards mainland.
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| There, the salt air
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| Fills the gills of the dead bait in hand.
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| The deep is in riot, the coastline is quiet
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| Asleep and divided in bands.
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| While beer halls all revil, drunk and disheveled,
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| Helplessly wading the diver is down.
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| And theyre chumming the oceans.
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| The signal is sent,
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| Recieved and repsonded to.
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| The water is red, red, red, red.
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| Were downed, downed as the hand of god
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| Chokes the driftwood with dead weight and brine.
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| And spawning the detailed decline
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| Via dorsal cuts, hooks, sink and line.
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| The anchors have setlled, the tanks are full level.
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| The flag has been raised half-mast on the bow.
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| And harpoons are loaded, the cage has been lowered.
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| The masks on, the diver is down, now.
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| And theyre chumming the oceans.
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| The signal is sent
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| I think hes in trouble.
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| The water is red, red, red, red. |