| You ask in what magical country
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| Most suffering sighs, you ask
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| And from whose golden hair gray hairs sprout
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| What a place where I couldn't sleep well every night
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| Where the dirt rushes brighter from the throats than from under the wheels
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| There I get stale from autumn to autumn
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| Old men in stuffy summer cars sing songs from movies
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| Pulling like guts from their yellowed era
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| And the words from their songs in my head settle with dust, some kind of forgotten pain,
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| And when these old men look aimingly, he puts on Bilbo's ring
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| Don't believe the magic word
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| Which strangles the weak do not believe
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| This world will not become newer
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| He's been bewitched for too long
|
| Don't believe the magic word
|
| Which strangles the weak do not believe
|
| This world will not become newer
|
| He's been bewitched for too long
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| Do you know that in a magical land
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| It is impossible to stumble upon a miracle, you know everything
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| What is it worth at least walking on ice
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| Merciless and smooth ice
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| So that a pike descends to you from the hole
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| And said to turn the other cheek
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| When you were ready to explain in dynamics
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| Hump pressed your Wishlist
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| As if the air in the Tank ran out
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| It starts to hurt, be patient
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| It's just fun starts.
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| God inhaled chlorine again
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| And not to those who gave out commands
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| You woke up in the morgue today
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| So all blots are forgiven
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| Don't believe the magic word
|
| Which strangles the weak do not believe
|
| This world will not become newer
|
| He's been bewitched for too long
|
| Don't believe the magic word
|
| Which strangles the weak do not believe
|
| This world will not become newer
|
| He's been bewitched for too long |