| For every man who will last
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| There’s nothing he can’t get past
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| No obstacle he cannot erase
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| For every king there’s a crown
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| And every time I look around
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| I am the kin of infinite space
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| For every field there’s a mole
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| With the soil that he stole
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| And the sightlessness that lets him go free
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| For every drought there’s a rain
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| And when my earth’s in pain
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| I watch it boil o tearfully
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| There’s a time to sing these things
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| And a time to have them sung
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| A time to bring the tune
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| And a time to have it brung
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| There’s a lap for resting head
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| There’s the only nesting bed
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| There’s the souls to cry among
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| For the things that don’t get sung
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| And a hand to hold your throat
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| To stifle that crying choke |