| She came from Dakota
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| Though some say she hailed from the South
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| He tried to believe but each time she would leave
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| With the venom that dripped from her mouth
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| Like some angel of old
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| Bent on saving the soul
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| Drugged to the knees he would pray
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| To some rude Russian icon
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| That twined like a python
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| And blinded the sun, night, and day
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| He’d say
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| Please bring me peace
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| You say you’ll stay
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| Just to leave me whole
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| All of my soul your passion play
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| Though she lies to amuse
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| She lies to confuse
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| Passion with vision and pain
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| He lies for possession and time
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| Though there’s no time to gain
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| Squandering feeling
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| Constantly stealing away
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| From the sound of her name
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| Is like thunder and lightning
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| Hiding the sound of the rain
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| And he’d say
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| So he searches for truth
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| In the beauty that once was her name
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| Senselessly trusting in time to remind her
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| Blind, she came
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| Suddenly rootless
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| Fashionably useless
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| Magically fruitless and time
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| Like some Sunday scholar
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| Who lives off the squalor
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| Of yesterday’s knowledge and fame
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| And he’d say
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| Well some overdose
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| And some wrap like a rose
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| 'Round the slick perfumed nose
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| Of high noon
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| Burning their lips
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| As they stoop low to kiss
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| Some rich man’s excuse for the moon
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| I must have been lucky --
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| Got out with my body intact
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| And tomorrow in tune
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| But it’s this sense of time
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| That wraps like a vine
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| 'Round the neck of the sun and the moon |