| On the old forgotten crossways where the fourteen rivers did meet
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| The bones of our elders were lying in the street
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| On the dark and dusty desert like a ghost I’ve flown
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| I barely cried, wherever I’d ride I’d never find a home
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| Woe on me, somehow I will feel more free
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| To wallow in the empty-headed peace
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| Where the plain-hearted sorrows never cease
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| Well I am just a ramshackle, I go from town to town
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| When there is no shelter, I lay down on the ground
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| I killed for no reason, I pissed upon the vine
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| Cussed and moaned and burned the bone when I had the time
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| Woe on me, somehow I will feel more free
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| To wallow in the empty-headed peace
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| Where the plain-hearted sorrows never cease
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| There’s saints and there is animals, they’ve taken what they could
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| And it’s written in the pages to do just what they should
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| They stood the test and burned the rest and tore them limb from limb
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| Like the fashion with no passion, they opened up their skin
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| Woe on me, somehow I will feel more free
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| To wallow in the empty-headed peace
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| Where the plain-hearted sorrows never cease |