| Your world is in flames there ain’t even a name
|
| For the feelings you feel as you watch it all burn.
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| There’s a girl in the distance, she’s calling your name,
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| But the name that she’s calling is not your name, she calls:
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| THE WORD-MULE! |
| THE WORD-MULE! |
| THE WORD-MULE!
|
| but he’s plowing the field…
|
| THE WORD-MULE! |
| THE WORD-MULE! |
| THE WORD-MULE!
|
| But he’s plowing the field…
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| And you can’t walk on that water, I know 'cause I tried.
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| It’s our spider web-thinking, it’s just too heavy with holes.
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| And our thoughts they are made up of red Georgia clay,
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| we think we know everything, but man we don’t know:
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| THE WORD-MULE! |
| THE WORD-MULE! |
| THE WORD-MULE!
|
| but he’s plowing the field…
|
| THE WORD-MULE! |
| THE WORD-MULE! |
| THE WORD-MULE!
|
| but he’s plowing the field… here come THE WORD-MULE!
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| My friends,
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| look out for hustlers for preachers for sheisters,
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| them silver-tongued saints who pretend to do good,
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| 'cause they? |
| re geeks biting chicken-heads off with their witty rejoinders they
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| ain’t nothing but greasy fast food for:
|
| THE WORD-MULE! |
| THE WORD-MULE! |
| THE WORD-MULE!
|
| but he’s plowing the field…
|
| THE WORD-MULE! |
| THE WORD-MULE! |
| THE WORD-MULE!
|
| but he’s plowing the field… |