| These are the days of the open hand
|
| they will not be the last
|
| look around now
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| these are the days of the beggars
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| and the choosers
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| this is the year of the hungry man
|
| whose place is in the past
|
| hand in hand with ignorance
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| and legitimate excuses
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| the rich declare themselves poor
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| and most of us are not sure
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| if we have too much
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| but we’ll take our chances
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| because God stopped keeping score
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| I guess somewhere along the way
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| He must have let us all out to play
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| turned his back and all God’s children
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| crept out the back door
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| chorus
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| and it’s hard to love,
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| there’s so much to hate
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| hanging on to hope
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| when there is no hope to speak of and the wounded skies above
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| say it’s much too late
|
| well maybe we should all be praying for time
|
| these are the days of the empty hand
|
| oh you hold on to what you can
|
| and charity is a coat you wear
|
| twice a year
|
| this is the year of the guilty man
|
| your television takes a stand
|
| and you find that what was over there
|
| is over here
|
| so you scream from behind your door
|
| say what’s mine is mine and not yours
|
| I may have too much
|
| but I’ll take my chances
|
| because God stopped keeping score
|
| and you cling to the things
|
| they sold you
|
| did you cover your eyes when
|
| they told you
|
| that he can’t come back
|
| because he has no children
|
| to come back for
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| chorus
|
| (George Michael) |