| People said that the oil was cold
|
| And the old Gods were pushing up mold
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| We strung our instruments
|
| And got ready for the embarrassments
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| In the middle of a lunatic world
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| We didn’t reach for the champion’s pearl
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| Excavated a private hallway
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| And chose «sometimes» over «almost always»
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| We’ll try it anyway
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| Don’t care about success and failure
|
| Just want a chance to impale the jailer
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| Don’t long for yesterday
|
| Or hope for a good tomorrow
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| This very hour is less than borrowed
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| Gun show
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| Move slow
|
| Every hour is a year to the crows
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| Small stage
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| Ice age
|
| Never listen to the things that people say
|
| We stood at the very last edge
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| Of everything that had ever been said
|
| Took a look at the people’s archive
|
| Nodded politely and chose the swan-dive
|
| There are no heroes in the room
|
| Just ghouls in the rock & roll tomb
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| Do we look like statues to you for slide projection
|
| And pin-cushion voodoo? |