| There’s a storm outside that’s a holding its breath
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| Waiting to blow but toying with death
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| By the look in your eyes
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| You’ve been toying too
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| Well inside the smoke and still the room
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| A that jokes and will kill us soon
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| As you start to resign, the sermon on the mount
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| Say blessed are those that mourn
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| They will be comforted soon
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| But you say it with such scorn
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| You don’t believe that it’s true
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| But He is a light, even in death
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| Who said that living’s about drawing breath?
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| And sometimes your breath’s too heavy too hold
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| And it disappears like clouds in the cold
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| Like clouds in the cold
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| I woke up bleeding and didn’t know why
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| The girl in my bed had left in the night
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| Well I was still swimming in her smell
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| All in love
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| I woke up listening to the Calvary {?]
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| Ungrateful pilgrims gathering
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| Even without the missing fingers and all extra thumbs
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| I still played a tune on the violin
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| Say blessed are those that mourn
|
| They will be comforted soon
|
| But you say it with such scorn
|
| You don’t believe that it’s true
|
| And He is a light, even in death
|
| Who said that living’s about drawing breath?
|
| And sometimes your breath’s too heavy too hold
|
| And it disappears like clouds in the cold
|
| And sometimes those words forged in the pyre
|
| Of the funeral pyre
|
| Of the funeral pyre
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| Of the funeral pyre
|
| Of the funeral pyre
|
| Of the funeral pyre |