| Up on a mountain over the plains
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| Christopher sat with his hands to his face
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| This urn is her casket, this ash her remains
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| It doesn’t feel right just to throw it away
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| So he kept it with him everywhere that he strayed
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| With long narrow shadows he shouldered the weight
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| If I keep her with me, then I’ll keep her safe
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| He choked down the words that he wanted to say
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| Wish I could run from the place that poisons my passion away
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| Wish I never wrote her anything
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| Let this be the last song I sing
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| Grooves in his shoulders, the urn still in his clasp
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| Christopher struggled against the river so fast
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| Imaginary messiahs like the world on his back
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| Pushed him under the current where he drowned with the ash
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| There’s no moral to your story
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| Yeah they’re lying again my friend
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| There’s no moral to your story, my friend
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| Say goodbye to the place that poisons your passion away
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| If you write a lost love anything
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| Don’t let it be the last song you sing |