| Oh: listening to Sunday Shoals
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| Weed up from the water
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| Missionaries fiddle while they baptize the horizon
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| Chaos if they falter
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| Oh, Donna was offended by the cartographic vessels
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| That mirrored the pain of her daughter
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| Oh, Holly was dead from the cartographic lead
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| That poisoned the veins of her daughter
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| And the patriarch will send his children to the fens
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| And the stinking swamplands will surrender
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| Patience in her Sunday clothes
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| We ate the witch’s hat
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| We ate the witch’s pills
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| And offerings and the offerings and the semblance of the offerings
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| Paid for with a baseball bat, paid for with a baseball bat
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| Paid for with a baseball bat
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| Reaction: when they come. |
| And when they come, and when they go
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| Reaction when they come, they will violate their sun
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| And tear apart their daughters and make witches of their sons
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| You ain’t nothing at all!
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| I’m never going to be a-waiting for that man |