| «Do you still see me even here?»
|
| (The silver cord lies on the ground.)
|
| «And so I’m dead», the young man said
|
| Over the hill (not a wish away)
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| My friends (as one) all stand aligned
|
| Although their taxis came too late
|
| There was a rush along the Fulham Road
|
| There was a hush in the Passion Play
|
| Such a sense of glowing in the aftermath
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| Ripe with rich attainments all imagined
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| Sad misdeeds in disarray
|
| The sore thumb screams aloud
|
| Echoing out of the Passion Play
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| All the old familiar choruses come crowding in a different key…
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| Melodies decaying in sweet dissonance
|
| There was a rush along the Fulham Road
|
| Into the Ever-passion Play
|
| And who comes here to wish me well?
|
| A sweetly-scented angel fell
|
| She laid her head upon my disbelief
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| And bathed me with her ever-smile
|
| And with a howl across the sand
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| I go escorted by a band of gentlemen in leather bound
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| NO-ONE (but someone to be found) |