| Then came question and it was about time
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| The answer came back and it was long
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| The house it was built by so men in rhyme
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| But whatever came of his talented son
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| Who wrote me a dialogue set a tune
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| Always you told me of being alone
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| Except for the stories about God and you
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| And do you still live there, in Buffalo
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| They put up the walls, no more to say
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| Nobody stopped to ask why it was done
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| The stream was too far and the rains too high
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| So into the city the river did run
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| Because of the architect the buildings fell down
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| Smothered and drowned all the seeds that you sowed
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| I wish I was somewhere but not in this town
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| Maybe the ocean next time around
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| I seem to remember the face and the name
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| But if it’s not you I don’t care
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| I know of changes, but nothing would change you
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| To Theo the sailor who sings in his lair
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| Then I’ll turn and he won’t be there
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| Dusky black windows to light the dark stair
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| Candles will nod in the musty air
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| Oh, with the flames for as many as the years |