| Oh, my beloved Tania
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| How I long to see your face
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| Photographed in fifteen second intervals
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| In a bank in San Leandro
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| A Polaroid of you
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| Cinque with a seven-headed dragon
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| In a house in Daly City
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| Don’t be sad, my beloved Tania
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| They say your father never liked Stephen Weed anyway
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| Hired a detective
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| To follow him around
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| Oh, my beloved revolutionary sweetheart
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| I can see your newsprint face turn yellow in the gutter
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| It makes me sad
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| How I long for the days when you came to liberate us from boredom
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| From driving around from the hours between five and seven in the evening
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| My beloved Tania
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| We carry your gun deep within our hearts
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| For no better reason than our lives have no meaning
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| And we want to be on television |