| Immanuel, will your doctors let you be ill?
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| Or are the new laws quoting quotas they have to fill?
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| They said you to have to work
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| So you work and you get worse
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| And you curse the day you were born
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| Fill in your date of birth
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| And sign your name on the application form
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| Immanuel, every drop of blood tastes like wine
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| When I speak of blood
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| I’m speaking of how you always felt like a brother to me
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| Immanuel, when I speak of wine
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| I’m speaking of the wine regions outside of Santiago, Chile
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| Where I will take you when you get better
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| Immanuel, it’s difficult to stand fast
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| When it’s not your arm nicely wrapped in a cast
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| When your a needle in a haystack
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| And a dead horse on the racetrack
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| And no one sees you bleeding
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| When the story is old
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| And the winter blowing cold in Sweden
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| Immanuel, every drop of blood tastes like wine
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| When I speak of blood
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| I’m speaking of what I would do if anyone hurt you
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| Immanuel, when I speak of wine
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| I’m speaking of the wine regions outside of Santiago, Chile
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| Where I will take you when you get better
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| And that’s a promise
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| Immanuel, imagine the cool breeze from the Andes
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| Immanuel, imagine the full-bodied red wine against your lips
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| Immanuel, imagine the Chilean women
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| The most beautiful women in the world |