| No one looks in this place for motive or any hope
|
| But for the dead shot of an amber glass
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| The blue light of a votive
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| The rain obscured the window
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| As the pain was dulled by the grains
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| Absolved in spoons and flames
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| In fear in time dissolving
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| It’s not for the faint of pulse
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| Or anybody false
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| Those amateurs who only shed their skin
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| So where are those traitors now, we once called patriots?
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| Just like those saints who seem to revel in their sins
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| O my eyes were filled with tears that were stinging
|
| After our assassin’s work was done
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| But hands and bells are only there for the wringing
|
| As we were bringing bullets for the new-born king
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| The trumpet sounds lamenting
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| Trampling down the blooms of the deceased
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| The double agent girl and the fallen priest were heading for the border
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| Somewhere at the high command there stayed the palest hand
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| That saw the order countermand
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| Erased a tape recorder and then they hung him from a window cord
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| Swallow down that voodoo vial to still your breath a while
|
| Before we spill this tale that has been spun
|
| And so I shall now confide all that I once denied
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| Oh I’m so sorry for the things I’ve done
|
| O my eyes were filled with tears that were stinging
|
| After our assassin’s work was done
|
| But hands and bells are only there for the wringing
|
| As we were bringing bullet for the new-born king |