| St. Peter’s cathedral
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| Built of granite
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| Ever fearful of the answer
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| When the candle in the tunnel
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| Is flickering and sputters
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| And fading faster
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| It’s only then that you will know
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| What lies above or down below
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| Or if these fictions only prove
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| How much you’ve really got to lose
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| At St. Peter’s cathedral
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| There is stained glass
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| There’s a steeple that is reaching
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| Up towards the heavens
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| Such ambition never failing to amaze me
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| It’s either quite a master plan
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| Or just chemicals that help us understand
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| That when our hearts stop ticking
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| This is the end
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| And there’s nothing past this
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| There’s nothing past this
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| There’s nothing past this
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| There’s nothing past this
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| There’s nothing past this
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| There’s nothing past this
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| There’s nothing past this
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| There’s nothing past this |