| Too much pain, too much sorrow
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| Eyes bone dry, get on with our tomorrows
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| I wake up in a pool of tears and sweat
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| Cryin' for some friends I ain’t never even met
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| Then I hear the drone of a low-flyin' plane
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| And oh my God, here we go again!
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| Skyscrapers blowin' up inside my head
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| Screamin' at a fireman whose radio is dead
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| Flyin' in a chopper over the Towers
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| Get out of there, my sisters and brothers
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| I been tellin' everybody since 1993
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| These radios are gonna be the death of me
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| Ain’t no smoke without a fire
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| The people want answers not patronizin'
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| Somethin' goin' down, New York Town
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| Somethin' goin' down
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| Somethin' goin' down, New York Town
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| Somethin' goin' down
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| I been talkin' to a man from the CIA
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| Hey we got you covered, kid, everything is okay
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| Then why the hell ain’t we had an investigation
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| It’s just too complicated
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| 'sides you just don’t get the political implications
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| And you sound like a commie from the United Nations.
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| Too man friends, too many heroes
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| Dust in the wind — Ground Zero
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| Too many cowboys, too many martyrs
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| Too many questions, not enough answers
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| Was no one lookin' out for us, is that so simplistic
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| Brothers and sisters all becomin' statistics
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| Ain’t no smoke.
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| I dreamed I saw the White House — an oil well in the yard
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| Was I just bein' paranoid?
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| SUVs, SOBs, gas guzzlers
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| Didn’t conservation go out with Jimmy Carter
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| Is it just me and my imagination
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| Or have we sold out the very spirit of this nation?
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| The talkin' heads are chattering on television
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| In between ads — the new religion
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| I wish they’d leave me here just broken-hearted
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| Right back where I started
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| Then I hear the rumble of a low flyin' plane
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| And, oh my God, this thing is happenin' again
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| Ain’t no smoke
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| Orphan of the Storm
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| Get off the plane at Kennedy
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| Got a dream in your heart
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| Though it’s down in your boots
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| Got a hundred quid in your pocket
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| And a couple of addresses
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| In Woodside and the Bronx
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| And you fit in like a fist in a glove
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| With the other hard chaws on the gang
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| Some are runnin' from themselves
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| Some are runnin' from God and man
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| And you drink to dull the memory
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| Of why you strayed from home
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| To the concrete fields of New York City
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| An orphan of the storm
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| The gangerman looks at you
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| Respect in his eyes
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| He knows you’ll work until you drop
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| 'Cause there’s a black rage eatin' away inside you
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| You’d walk through walls, son
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| Before you’d ever give up
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| And at night you’re like a phantom
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| Nailin' every you one you can
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| It’s better than lyin' awake in the dark
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| Thinkin' of her with another man
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| But she’ll never take your dreams away
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| That’s not why you’ve come
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| To the canyoned streets of New York City
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| An orphan of the storm
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| You only went back once
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| You just had to be sure
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| Kindness in her eyes
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| You saw only pity there
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| So drink up your Jamesons whiskey
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| Wash it down with pints
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| Obliteration on the rocks
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| Then out of here in the dawn’s hungover light
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| So you put her far behind you
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| You hardly think of her anymore
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| Well, maybe on a rainy Sunday night
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| You’re the gangerman yourself now
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| Got a new job down the Trades
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| And every little thing’s gonna be alright
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| Then they blew you to sweet Jesus
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| On that grand September day
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| Not a cloud on your horizon
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| Your heart finally okay
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| But they couldn’t take your dreams away
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| They were not for sale or loan
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| On the shattered streets of New York City
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| This orphan has finally come home |