| It’s the demolition derby
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| It’s the sport of the hunt
|
| Proud tribe in full war-dance
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| It’s the slow smile that the bully gives the runt
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| It’s the force of inertia
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| It’s the lack of constraint
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| It’s the children out playing in the rock garden
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| All dolled-up in black hats and war paint
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| Sometimes it feels like bars of steel
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| I cannot bend with my hands
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| Oh-oh — I worry too much
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| Somebody told me that I worry too much
|
| Oh-oh — I worry too much
|
| Somebody told me that I worry too much
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| It’s these sandpaper eyes
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| It’s the way they rub the lustre from what is seen
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| It’s the way we tell ourselves that all these things are normal
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| Till we can’t remember what we mean
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| It’s the flicker of our flames
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| It’s the friction born of living
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| It’s the way we beat a hot retreat
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| And heave our smoking guns into the river
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| Sometimes it feels like bars of steel
|
| I cannot bend with my hands
|
| Oh-oh — I worry too much
|
| Somebody told me that I worry too much
|
| Oh-oh — I worry too much
|
| Somebody told me that I worry too much
|
| It’s the quick-step march of history
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| The vanity of nations
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| It’s the way there’ll be no muffled drums
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| To mark the passage of my generation
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| It’s the children of my children
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| It’s the lambs born in innocence
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| It’s wondering if the good I know
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| Will last to be seen by the eyes of the little ones
|
| Sometimes it feels like bars of steel
|
| I cannot bend with my hands
|
| Oh-oh — I worry too much
|
| Somebody told me that I worry too much
|
| Oh-oh — I worry too much
|
| Somebody told me that I worry too much |