| I let a sparrow talk me out of the crib
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| Made of mannequin arms and sycophants
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| She sang her caution thrown against the odds
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| I’m not tilting at the windmills, I’m taking my chances
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| She put the feral back inside my voices
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| I’ll take a cigarette, put it out on my arm
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| It’s the only way that I can feel
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| One tempts the saint and the other takes the sinner away
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| The Teleprompter has begun to rot
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| Where I’ve carried the blindest items
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| They’ll seem to find a way to haunt you again
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| I’m not tilting at windmills, I’m taking my chances
|
| She put the feral back inside my voices
|
| I’ll take a cigarette, put it out on my arm
|
| It’s the only way that I can feel
|
| One tempts the saint and the other takes the sinner away
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| Sung by the choir whose lungs are broken
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| Stung by a million justifications
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| Swung by the faithful grip of a million axes
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| Sung by the choir whose lungs are broken
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| Stung by a million justifications
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| Swung by the disenchanted, not faint of heart
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| Pray that you never find a place to bury you, bury you
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| Pray that you never find a place to bury you, bury you
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| She put the feral back inside my voices
|
| I’ll take a cigarette, put it out on my arm
|
| It’s the only way that I can feel
|
| One tempts the saint and the other takes the sinner away
|
| One tempts the saint and the other takes the sinner away |