| In our of ancient times,
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| Stood a lone friend of mine.
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| Reflected by the ever-burning sigh
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| Of God, who happened by.
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| And in the dawn, there came the song
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| Of some sweet lady singing in his ear,
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| «Your God has gone,
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| And from now on
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| You’ll have to learn to hate the things you fear.»
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| We want to know, are we inside the womb
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| Of passion plays and by righteousness consumed,
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| Or just in life’s contentment of our souls?
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| And so began the age of man.
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| Well he left his body in the sand.
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| The glass is raised to a god of high,
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| Smiled upon them from the sky.
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| So take the stage,
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| Spin down the ages, loose the passion,
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| Spill the rage upon your son
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| Who holds the gun up to your head,
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| The play’s begun.
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| And God the director smells a rat,
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| Pulls another rabbit from his hat,
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| Sniffs the air, and says, «That's that, I’m going.» |