| All the pumping’s nearly over for my sweet heart,
|
| This is the one for me,
|
| Time to meet the chef,
|
| O boy! |
| running man is out of death.
|
| Feel cold and old, it’s getting hard to catch my breath.
|
| 's back to ash, 'now, you’ve had your flash boy'
|
| The rocks, in time, compress
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| your blood to oil,
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| your flesh to coal,
|
| enrich the soil,
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| not everybody’s goal.
|
| Anyway, they say she comes on a pale horse,
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| But I’m sure I hear a train.
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| O boy! |
| I don’t even feel no pain —
|
| I guess I must be driving myself insane.
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| Damn it all! |
| does earth plug a hole in heaven,
|
| Or heaven plug a hole in earth — 'how wonderful to be so profound,
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| when everything you are is dying underground.'
|
| There’s not much spectacle for an underground creole
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| as he walks through the gates of Sheol.
|
| «I would have preferred to have been jettisoned
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| into a thousand pieces in space,
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| or filled with helium and floated above a mausoleum.
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| This is no way to pay my last subterranean homesick dues.
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| Anyway I’m out of the hands of any pervert embalmer
|
| doing his interpretation of what I should look like,
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| stuffing his cotton wool in my cheeks.»
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| I feel the pull on the rope, let me off at the rainbow.
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| I could have been exploding in space
|
| Different orbits for my bones
|
| Not me, just quietly buried in stones,
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| Keep the deadline open with my maker!
|
| See me stretch; |
| for God’s elastic acre
|
| The doorbell rings and its
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| «Good morning Rael
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| So sorry you had to wait.
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| It won’t be long, yeah!
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| She’s very rarely late.» |