| Winter froze our crooked fingers into praying hands
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| At a January funeral for a sweet faced man
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| When we pulled black suits out of closets once again
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| And squeezed our fatter bodies into them
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| To carry a casket through a catholic parade
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| Full of tissues and condolences
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| Till a priest spoke your name
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| In a mundane way he prayed
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| Claiming you were in a better place
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| I’m not convinced but hope that it’s the case
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| When springtime arrives and melts away the snow around your grave
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| I’ll still remember you in 10th grade
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| With a teenage smirk
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| Disc-man works of Richard D. James
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| That image will stay burnt onto my brain
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| I’ll miss you like our younger days
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| We’ll miss you like our younger days
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| Before grays started showing our age
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| Attempting to love life as much as you did
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| Won’t remember you painted in a box
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| Not a cliché at a wake
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| Not a tear drop
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| Not a cliché
|
| Not a tear drop
|
| Not a cliché
|
| Not a tear drop
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| You are forever
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| Mother’s house is covered in your photographs
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| Every angle of your face
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| Every age
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| Every hair style phase
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| And we puffy eyed droogs
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| Huddle in her memorial gallery
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| For the first of our gang to pass beyond the galaxy
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| Tangled in uncomfortable laughs
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| Masking the cracks in speaking voices
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| Unable to come to terms with the fact that you won’t be back
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| As much as we dream of reviving you
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| Right now we don’t know how to react
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| Or where to find you
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| We’d fight for you
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| We’d break bones
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| Bite through stone
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| And punch holes directly into the depths of the unknown
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| Till our fists turned bloody red
|
| But today we’re sitting in silence
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| Without a life to defend
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| Lost without our friend
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| And I’m at a loss for words…
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| Searching for a thousand more ways to say that
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| «Life is cruel and absurd»
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| That «it wasn’t your turn»
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| But you’re buried in dirt
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| While I’m still walking this earth
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| Disgusted by the fucking world
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| If this is how it works
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| Battling with faith
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| And it’s hard to say if I’ll see you again
|
| Not sure what I believe in the end
|
| But I’m at least confident
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| That I’ll catch glimpses of you in contours of your sister’s face
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| Or your fiancées gaze upon any mention of your name
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| You visited during prison bunk visions
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| So lucid and vivid
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| That it almost convinced me
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| For minutes
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| That you were still living
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| But now I’m wide awake and a cynic
|
| Chewing on birthday cake and been livid
|
| Wishing that I could write a song to bring back the dead and fix all things
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| wicked
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| But I better leave this selfishness and let you rest
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| See you again at the peak of Connecticut fall
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| When leaves turn red
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| Or within that San Francisco fog
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| So thick it can blanket the bridges
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| And cover our damages
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| I’ll see you again
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| Within the serenity of
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| Atlanta magnolias
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| My friend
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| Though I dreamt of fixing all wrongs…
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| Unclogging lungs from blood clots…
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| Sometimes we’re forced to stop
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| And appreciate moments we all got
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| So I’ll shut my mouth at last
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| Surrender myself to the chaos
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| It’ll all go by so fast
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| Beyond the end
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| Love you Rob |