| There are places
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| Some of us can’t face yet
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| And even though we see it
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| We just swear God’s sleeping
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| So we say
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| «Ash to ash, dust to dust
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| We’re all gonna die so we have to
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| Trust in something»
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| Though it might be nothing
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| But it’s gotta be something
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| Now we mean it
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| In our homes where we’re sleeping
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| We call it mattresses underwater but the gutters are seeping
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| So we say
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| «Ask and ask and we’ll return
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| The same old favors till its our own turn»
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| We got ash in our pockets and dust in the urn
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| Another forty years for you
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| And yours to learn
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| Love was made like some ship at bay, never to see waves
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| We’ll probably all crash anyway
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| When we see it we don’t believe it
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| We’ve got our faces made for smiling, but we are weeping
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| We got ash in our pockets and dirt in the urn
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| Another forty years for you and yours to learn
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| You say, «all you ever talk about is dying and it’s getting so old»
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| And we say, «love was made
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| Like some book or a page just ripped out but we never read anyway»
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| And you say «love was made like a ship at bay never to see waves»
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| We should probably get used to it, but we don’t
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| Now I see it…
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| She’s got her hands in her pockets and she’s walking around
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| She’s got a face made for smiling but she’s making a frown
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| She says, «all you ever talk about is letting us down
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| Well if you ever see me dying, just put me in the ground» |