| Down by the brook where the birches are thin
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| The birds in the trees with their voices of tin
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| They sing even after the numbers begin
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| As though there were nothing above but the wind
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| A lamb I have been for the butcher to skin
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| A witness without to the darkness within
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| To every wail and to every grin
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| As all of the numbers go marching on in
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| A lamb with no shepherd, a brook with no sea
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| A story with no one to tell it but me
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| So here is the moral, for time is not long:
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| The world is a beast with a beautiful song
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| The day it is done and the twilight is nigh
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| The sun is replaced with a watchtower eye
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| And the clouds have been stained with an ominous dye
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| Like the butcher has wiped off his knife on the sky
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| The cold iron letters read «Arbeit macht frei»
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| And it may seem a lie but it’s hard to deny
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| If your work is to try to forget how to cry
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| And your freiheit is found in a pit full of lye
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| A lamb with no shepherd, a brook with no sea
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| A story with no one to tell it but thee
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| So tell me the moral, for time is not long
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| And the world is a beast with a beautiful song |