| Do you want your flowers now?
|
| Or should I wait until the morning
|
| Takes your breath away?
|
| Baby, don’t you know by now
|
| We might not make it
|
| We might not make it
|
| Do you want your flowers now?
|
| Or should I wait until the morning
|
| Takes your breath away?
|
| Baby, don’t you know by now
|
| We might not make it
|
| We might not make it
|
| Do you want your flowers now?
|
| Or should I wait until the morning
|
| Takes your breath away?
|
| Baby, don’t you know by now
|
| We might not make it
|
| We might not make it
|
| Someone told me work is worship
|
| So perhaps I’m a believer
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| Perhaps my greatest love is god
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| ‘Cause purpose helps me breathe here
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| I’ve watched my peers turn their intentions to now
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| Turn their pining to present, turn their lost into found
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| We’re the gifted and proud
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| But there’s no school for music, shit
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| And you would think by now I would be used to it
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| But, here I am, still doubting my worth
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| Still faithless and crawling, still patient and clawing
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| It be your own trauma
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| It be your own mama
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| It be the one that say they want you
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| But then don’t call you
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| It be your work ethic
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| It be your own depression
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| It be your insecurities and every life lesson
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| I just hope you get the flowers you deserve
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| I hope you tend your garden and I hope you love the work
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| I wish you well in healing, I pray you find your truth
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| I pray you find yourself and in yourself, you find your youth |