| The mysteries of bliss are closed to my eyes, shadows
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| Under my skin too deep to divine, dust to dust I do
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| What I must, I was born for better but you know
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| I feel lost. |
| Eight months four homes bad in my bones
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| See me on the subway train riding through the zones
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| Be a runaway but there’s no place better
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| Then where you’ve been
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| Behold the motherlode — and this is my road
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| Behold the motherlode — and this is my road
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| I’m looking from a building that the bombs missed
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| Call this a home I call it an edifice — it’s time to
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| Throw a stone through a stained glass window
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| Time to steal a tip from the next door table
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| Love thy neighbour steal their cortina — do as I do when
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| Times get leaner. |
| Tearing out a stereo everytime
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| The sun sets, wearing out the clothes you stole dancing
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| To the tape deck; |
| live it like the last days, park it
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| In the fast lane — every night in your skull drums
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| Like a freight train — open up the seasons, carve
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| Yourself an Eden, live it how you like — never give a reason
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| Behold the motherlode — and this is my road
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| Behold the motherlode — and this is my road
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| May you not remember may you never need regret
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| May every sunrise find you in another’s bed
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| May every passing day let you get your own way
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| May you score what you came for — never miss an encore
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| Get on the guest list — get through the front door
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| May your enemies be fewer
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| May your substances be pure
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| Behold the motherlode — and this is my road
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| Behold the motherlode — and this is my road
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| All I want is the usual miracle
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| A touch of the physical
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| A shot of the spiritual |