| It’s the search for a church in the bottom of your purse
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| A spiritual home that you can take to the mall
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| You dig and you dig but you can only find your wallet
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| And your phone with a hundred missed calls
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| You could never return them all
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| And I watch you with your purse from the adjacent coffee table
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| At the Starbucks they built inside my heart
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| When your makeup starts to run I can see you’re getting older
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| I can see your life has been hard
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| Your face is worn like an old playing card
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| The Queen of Hearts
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| I am working in my bedroom, I’m composing all the music
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| For a film that will never by made
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| It’s the story of my life, a 1, 000, 000-hour epic
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| About a good man who went down in flames
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| Who got lost in God’s multitude of names
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| I am searching, I am searching, I am waving my antennae
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| Trying to pick up some signal through this dream
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| I’m an ant in a hill, but I think and I feel
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| And I’m composing these love letters to the Queen
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| Hoping somebody will see what I mean
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| The Queen of Hearts
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| I always heart about God with a wink and a nod
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| I guess I took it all too seriously
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| But I was five years old and I took what I was told
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| To mean that the sublime was in my reach
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| That the ocean of the known ends at the beach
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| Just up the street
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| But these days people like that are considered aberrations
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| And I’m being corrected as we speak
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| This is my heart, it’s a motor, it will search the world over
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| A search engine — see what I mean
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| I don’t need the Internet, I don’t need TV
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| To find the Queen
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| So if you ever find that church that fits in your purse
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| Put it into your cold metal shopping cart
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| And keep on wandering the aisles on the sick fluorescent tiles
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| We’ll be miles and miles apart
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| I’ve got my own search and I’m still just at the start
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| I’ll be out on the highways looking for my counterpart
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| The Queen of Hearts |