| The morning breeze is off and gone
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| The winding factory streets are clean
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| Old ladies put the kettle on
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| And all-night lechers pause and lean
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| On grey shop windows, everywhere
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| A deeper hum is in the air
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| Hotel room, drifter leaves no clues
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| He rides a freight-train out of town
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| And whistles at the icy rime
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| The cattle float like thistle-downs
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| And God is on the edge of time
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| Somewhere behind a siren wails
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| The freight-train soars above the rails
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| The traveller, he’s as hard as nails
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| As the train sweeps down the line
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| The salmon Season’s here to stay
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| And etched into each shoulder-bone
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| The mark of Cain is on display
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| As stone above each measured stone
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| Old Dresden burns above the breeze
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| The traveller, he’s on his knees
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| He’s watching sledge-wings dip and play
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| So far above the holy throne
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| Dresden blues |