| Forms are loosely fitting
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| Jury still are sitting
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| Sense of duty keeps us all in motion
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| Prison sirens wailing
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| That security is failing
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| Do not inspire a lifetime of devotion
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| No one will sympathize
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| No one really tries
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| They need a faith that leads them like a drum
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| And I can hear it pounding down among the ruins
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| Sad to say, I don’t think I’m the only one
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| I awoke and someone spoke
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| They asked me in a whisper
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| If all my dreams and visions had been answered
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| And I don’t know what to say
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| I never even pray
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| I just feel the pulse of universal dancers
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| They’ll waltz me till I die
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| They’ll never tell me why
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| I never stop to ask them where we’re going
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| Yes, but the holy, the profane
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| Are all helplessly insane
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| Wishful, hopeful, never even knowing
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| And they asked if I believe
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| And do the angels really grieve
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| Or is it all a comforting invention?
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| It’s just like gravity, I said
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| It’s not a product of my head
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| It doesn’t speak, but nonetheless commands attention
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| And I don’t care what it means
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| Or who decorates the scenes
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| The problem is more with my sense of pride
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| Because it keeps me thinking «me»
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| Instead of what it is to be
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| I’m not a passenger, I am the ride
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| I’m not a passenger
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| I am the ride |