| The arms that you cut off that Sunday night
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| Of the young man who ran screaming through
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| The street
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| Streaming blood in trails of terror
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| Are the arms that point me to my door
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| Which forsaken by the blood of Jesus
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| Invites the Devil, who now waits for me outside
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| The arms that you cut off that Sunday night
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| Are the arms that point me to the red eyes
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| Of the pentecostal killers and the black eyes
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| Of the roman catholic killers and the blue eyes
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| Of the pinhead skinhead killers
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| And the dirty angel does his target practice night
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| And day
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| Making ready now to steal my soul away
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| The arms that you cut off that Sunday night
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| Are the arms that wait between my T.V. and my gun
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| While the winks and smiles of singing debutantes
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| And eunuchs whisper
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| «We don’t want you, Unclean, lying there in vomit
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| Filth, and perspiration
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| Coming back with Elvis or with Jesus from the dead.»
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| The arms that you cut off the body
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| Of the screaming young man
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| Dance before my eyes the endless murder of my soul
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| Which, taunted every hour by open windows
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| Has kept itself alive with prayer
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| But not for miracles
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| And not for heaven
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| Just for silence
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| And for mercy
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| Until the end |