| there is a car parked where the block begins
|
| and there are people singing praises
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| say it’s all because of him
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| and there is a bird perched on a frayed wet wire
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| and his voice sings out for a lover
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| but its covered by the choir of voices
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| reaching way beyond the rafters
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| with devotion they perform these sacred tasks
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| they cross themselves and offer up their checkbooks
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| slight suffering is not too much to ask
|
| besides we all are making money
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| and we are all fucking alone
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| and we don’t know what we are doing
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| maybe just buying us some hope
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| because we know that we are lonely
|
| yeah, lonely that’s for sure
|
| and the older ones are coughing
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| and the older ones are dying
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| maybe we are all dying
|
| i pass a graveyard on my way to work
|
| today i saw two dozen white roses
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| on a fresh new mound of dirt
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| and i wondered about the occupant
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| when the darkness finally swallowed him was he calm and content
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| or was he sweating in a struggle to keep breathing,
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| ripping apart the sheets that dressed his bed
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| crying out loud for someone to help him
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| and collapsing on his back all pale and dead
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| maybe it’s me who’s this unstable
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| always obsessed about the end
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| why can’t i let what happens happen?
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| and just enjoy the time i spend
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| oh how i wish it was so easy
|
| but when there is no point to anything it can get a bit confusing
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| why is that i keep going?
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| why is that we keep going? |