| He kept his craft confined to the night
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| Subdued by sleep, we hate to wake up
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| He cataloged and counted his kills, divided the dead
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| And suddenly stopped
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| Prompted by the heat of July
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| The sweat on his skin beaded and fell
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| He never prayed a day in his life…
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| Cause man what’s the point when you’ve been promised to hell
|
| There’s something to be said for the crowd
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| Which gathered and grew and erupted into song
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| He smiled as he toyed with the noose, and took up their words
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| Oh, it won’t be long
|
| Oh, it won’t be long
|
| Oh, it won’t be long
|
| Oh, it won’t be long
|
| Oh, it won’t be long
|
| The tune collapsed, and the mob ceased their song…
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| Confused and in awe of the monster trained to sing
|
| The hangman tightened up and leaned in
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| And offered the man a chance to speak before he’d swing
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| He cried out:
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| «Man and monsters both make mistakes
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| But for every man who cries and begs for time enough to breathe
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| You’ll find a million more monsters like me
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| Who’ll lick your world and laugh when we leave.»
|
| Then the trap door released
|
| Oh, it won’t be long |