| Duck Confit
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| On the path of the direction of the divine
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| You’ll find
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| Vines of women and wine
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| In search of the gentle and kind
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| You can get fooled by the root of the mind
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| Where your strengths lead you
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| To great lakes of weakness
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| Where with tyrants you wash your hands
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| That they stole from the band of chieftains
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| Where admirers turn guns for hire
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| They shrug as you become victims of friendly fire
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| To take a look at all these thieves and liars
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| And ask is this what for the world was truly desired
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| Just who broke in the wax museum
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| And gave these fakes a stage at the Colosseum
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| They won’t melt under the Hollywood lights
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| The West Texas Summer sun
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| Where the pastor is plastic on the podium
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| Where he smiles with his mouth and not with his eyes
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| Where you know deep down inside
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| That something’s not right
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| Like a man killing the mother of his son
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| Cleaning his shotgun
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| I can’t kill the truth of the elephant in the room
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| I can’t hush the thought cause they sing like a convicts gloom
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| Where everybody knows but nobody is talkin'
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| Where crimes of humanity are concealed and condoned
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| By self preservation and biblical prophecy
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| Cause it ain’t cool to be you over here
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| Or over yonder
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| Currency is a commodity
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| You pay dearly for your honesty
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| If the truth sets you free
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| There’s a mute with the key
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| And the goose that laid the golden egg
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| Got cooked for the grease
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| Duck Confit |