| Lincoln Street is howling
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| It’s empty, growing colder,
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| The night has come on limping and
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| It’s bleeding from the shoulder.
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| Headlights fake a prison break
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| Of snow that rages and dies,
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| It’s lost its will upon this hill
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| As one time so did I.
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| But here comes everybody-
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| The rounders and the nuns,
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| The poets sweeping sleeper cars,
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| The butcher and his sons;
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| Here comes the restitution
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| We’d all but given up,
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| This evening we’re content believing
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| That love will be enough.
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| Air is what I need
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| But I try to breathe you in,
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| Thinking I can get at what I must
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| Beneath your skin.
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| Your veins are humming wire
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| Rushing fire to your face,
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| I feel it flush against my own,
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| A pulse that I can taste.
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| And here comes everybody-
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| The tyrant and his crew,
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| His most loyal traitors
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| And they whisper this to you:
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| Here comes the restitution
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| You’d all but given up,
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| This evening we’re content believing
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| That love will be enough.
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| The fire escape is folded
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| Like the cradle of an arm,
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| Our dread so deep we’ve learned to keep it Near without alarm.
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| But every fear is like the prayer
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| You’ve learned to shout out loud,
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| From your lips to God’s ear
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| It turns the face of every crowd.
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| And here comes everybody-
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| The closet renegades,
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| The weary, hungry soldiers
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| From the children’s lost crusade.
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| Here comes the restitution
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| We’d all but given up,
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| This evening we’re content believing
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| That love will be enough. |