| Sadder than any song I’ve sung
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| Is growing old or dying young
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| This earth is A grave, round and green
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| A tomb on sorrow which I’ve seen
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| A massive field we wander through
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| Great sky above, vast and blue
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| Death may come in A day or two
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| Whether or not I’m false or true
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| Man without an answer
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| Like A bird with broken wing
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| Wrapped up in his misery
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| Forgetting how to sing
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| Straight from the stretched-Out womb of sin
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| The horrid fire bombs will fall
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| Here is hope for priests and preachers
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| Here is heresy for all
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| So, man unkind will perish
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| In A final, fiery blaze
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| Or suffocate himself slowly
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| In his smoggy, yellow haze
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| The sun so sore from marching
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| Towards that receding west
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| Where pity no longer governs
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| With wisdom as his guest
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| Will rise somewhere south of east
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| Our sun will rise in mourning
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| Wishing it could quench with tears
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| The fields and skies all burning |