| This postcard tells you where we’ve been
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| And dirty dreams of pious men
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| Who wake in fear but sleep again
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| With what they’ve done, with what they’ve done, with all they’ve done
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| Some prophet died but wrote it down
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| Our serpent bell is on the ground
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| And all the ladies singing loud
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| «Hallelujah,» «hallelujah,» «hallelujah»
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| The meadow birds have found the bones of righteous men
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| Like ragged clothes, like precious stones
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| And fell like evil in the end, in aid of them
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| Those evil men, those perfect men
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| Some knuckle broken on disease
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| Which pulled a preacher off his knees
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| A callous whisper through the trees
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| Blows «patience boy,» «more patience boy,» «more patience boy»
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| And watch her children by the flame
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| The ones you gave your father’s name
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| Whose evil and his love remained
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| Inside you boy, inside you boy, inside you boy
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| The meadow birds have found the bones of righteous men
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| Like ragged clothes, like precious stones
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| And fell like evil in the end, in aid of them
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| Those evil men, those perfect men
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| We’ll sing a song we’ve never heard
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| Formed out of small forsaken words
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| And all the while that this occurs
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| We’ll love you all, we’ll love you all, we’ll love you all
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| And for the beauty that we’ve lost
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| The measured time for love it cost
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| Despite our feelings for the cross
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| We love you all, we love you all, we love you all |