| These days are on fire
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| These days are on fire
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| In the last days of Rome
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| We live under a hanging cloud
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| And we come up short but these roads take us anywhere past
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| Words screamed from atop a precipice to a waiting populace
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| These days are on fire
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| These days are on fire
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| In the last days of Rome (all I see is badlands)
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| We live under a hanging cloud
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| Past the badlands past the blight there is a spot of good fortune
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| These days won’t mean a thing past
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| (Grab the plowshares. Turn them to swords)
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| Past the badlands
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| Past the blight
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| Still breathing after the worst has left us
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| These days never meant a thing
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| And we come up short
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| But we come up with something
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| At least so far |