| His voice in the sky is the sound that you hear.
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| His timbre is dim and his motives aren’t clear.
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| Why does the prophet above have so much to fear?
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| Things aren’t always the way they appear.
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| He’s a horn with a slanted tone,
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| He’s the back without the bone.
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| The king sits on a crooked throne,
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| Stuck inside of the story alone.
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| When he raised a trumpet to his mouth
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| The sound of every voice tumbled out.
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| When he stretched the canvas into his frame
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| He painted everyone with the same brush.
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| He has the whole world by a string
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| And he tells the choir when to sing.
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| He’s a shadow in the sky.
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| He’s a horn with a slanted tone,
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| He’s the back without the bone.
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| The king sits on a crooked throne,
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| Stuck inside of the story alone.
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| His description of truth has the pages torn.
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| His inscription of roses are just the thorns.
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| His scripture is ripped from the back of his hand.
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| The scribe’s wish is the subject’s command.
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| He’s a horn with a slanted tone,
|
| He’s the back without the bone.
|
| The king sits on a crooked throne,
|
| Stuck inside of the story alone.
|
| When he raised a trumpet to his mouth
|
| The sound of every voice tumbled out.
|
| When he stretched the canvas into his frame
|
| He painted everyone with the same brush.
|
| He has the whole world by a string
|
| And he tells the choir when to sing.
|
| He’s a shadow in the sky.
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| I’m witnessing things I never thought I’d see.
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| There’s a darkness now I could not foresee.
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| An innocent man resigned to a plea.
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| A company in captivity by a narrator’s desire
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| To be free from the confines of an honest story.
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| It all seems so surreal but between you and me,
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| There’s a light at the end of the tale
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| So you’ll see that the way things are now
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| Aren’t the way they’ll always be.
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| How can I let them know, the truth about Octavio?
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| That he was lying all along.
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| Don’t trust the words you hear in a song. |