| Thunder on the fields
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| The rats of Paris are grinning
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| Morbid, twisted smiles in the night
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| Their teeth and eyes are shining
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| In the valleys people whisper
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| Children named the chosen ones
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| They gather 'round to fear and worship
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| What they do not understand
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| Up on the mountain, there’s something
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| Sinister pressing through
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| Black wings beating, hoofbeats pounding
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| A presence deeply terrifies you
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| In the houses of godheads they declare war on life
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| Reading through cobwebs
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| Preaching age-old lies
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| Down by the river, on a beach of black sand
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| Lovers have guns stuck in their mouths and are cursing these
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| Wicked lands
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| In a whiskey bar there’s ghosts
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| Throwing dice they’re betting with screams
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| They drink with us unknowingly and inflict the strangest dreams
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| There’s an eye in the storm
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| Where riders draw maps that are broken
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| Their dogs they have no bones, forever
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| Caught up in a hurricane
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| There’s an eye in the storm where riders draw maps that are broken
|
| Their dogs they have no bones, forever caught up in a hurricane
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| That they have awoken |