| «Keep quiet,» I said
|
| Why do we have to find a reason?
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| You brush the war paint off my skin
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| And since you are a praying man, well
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| I suggest we ask to stop the bleeding
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| Cause all this small town ammunition
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| Oh it weighs down like a fog
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| And they’re all chalked up and just spitting dust
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| All over our hands
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| And I wash them clean again
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| This town’s made up of lepers from the same cup
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| Poison the wells and rake the coals
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| And now I touch your skin
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| That leaves me tired and exposed
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| All this small town ammunition
|
| Oh it weighs down like a fog
|
| But they’re all chalked up and just spitting dust
|
| All over our hands
|
| And I wash them clean again
|
| My heart is burning with every urge to take the next train
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| But what’s the point of bruising for saints
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| Tryin to keep a good man new
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| So keep quiet, I said
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| Why do we have to find a reason?
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| You brush the war paint off my skin
|
| Blankets of irons hang over our heads
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| Over our heads |