| I, I am feeling like a veteran,
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| Uncompensated for the blood I’ve left to pool on foreign grounds.
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| And I, sometimes reach to rub at aching legs.
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| But they’ve been dust for over a decade,
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| And you’re the limb I’ve lost but somehow I still feel it.
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| 'Til I awake, we just hope that you made it.
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| We hope that you’re celebrating, with people you miss.
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| And burning like a beacon, guiding our ship around this hellish Sheol,
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| I’m happy to admit that maybe I am, a little depressed,
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| 'Cause I’m missing you to death.
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| And now, (It's only records of my memory.)
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| It’s only records of my memory,
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| Some little thing you gave posthumously; |
| the details all dragged out.
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| To think, (Of all the paintings we would be without.)
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| Of all the paintings we would be without,
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| If Van Gogh had gone and died face down,
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| From loss of blood the night he went and hacked his ear off.
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| 'Til I awake, we just hope that you made it.
|
| We hope that you’re celebrating, with people you miss.
|
| And burning like a beacon, guiding our ship around this hellish Sheol,
|
| I’m happy to admit that maybe I am, a little depressed,
|
| 'Cause I’m missing you to death.
|
| 'Til I awake, we just hope that you made it.
|
| We hope that you’re celebrating, with people you miss.
|
| And burning like a beacon, guiding our ship around this hellish Sheol,
|
| I’m happy to admit that maybe I am, a little depressed,
|
| 'Cause I’m missing you to death.
|
| 'Til I awake, we just hope that you made it.
|
| We hope you’re as decorated, as the day that you left.
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| And burning like a beacon, guiding our ship around this hellish Sheol,
|
| I’m happy to admit that maybe I am, a little depressed,
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| 'Cause I’m missing you to death. |