| This city is made of a million trips and I’m a runner
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| I’ve whipped the blood out of my elbows
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| And cooled down my lungs
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| For every scar on my knees
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| A piece of its sidewalks wonders if it still hurts
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| You know it still hurts
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| Once I’ll be tired, I’ll probably run away
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| But I know these streets still have got something for me
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| Under the gray ground the grass suffocates
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| And never makes it to the surface
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| I know the feeling (too well)
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| Like fighting with your own shadows
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| There’s no way to escape from the poison running through your veins
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| The pavements taught us the way we are walking
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| Alone, among seas of men and oceans of clowns
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| I’m keeping the circus away, just for a minute
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| Count on me, I’ll bury
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| What makes me feel like the other
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| Cowards, bastards, To yourself you can’t lie
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| You can’t forget the greener grass that keeps your head away from here
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| And the numerous scars, as many reminders that this city kills us in the end
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| We suffocate and make do with gasping for air
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| This castle ain’t home, these sidewalks ain’t home
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| This city will kill me in the end, there ain’t no comfortable death |