| In a scene from better times
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| Your traitor hangs up right there next to mine
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| The afternoon shakes down the trees
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| Like they owed it money -hey buddy, please:
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| Get in line—
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| Their promise of green fruit is gone
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| It’s bruised out there on the lawn;
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| He who cannot be seduced cannot be saved…
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| I hang ready to be swayed
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| Our hunger to be new begins
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| But slips the yoke like it was a second skin;
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| It’s walking back the shadow moon
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| As if on a string
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| A listing black balloon—
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| That turns its face and mounts the wall
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| To show a slower way to fall;
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| Oh, you hold me by a thread and fall away…
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| I stand hungry to be swayed
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| I’m torn to think this storm will rise
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| Already it’s tattered my sail and thin disguise
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| I ‘ve bent my song like broken words
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| Could call to me your whirling
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| Skittish birds—
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| I write to you, Dear stranger mine…
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| But stranger still, the hand of time
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| Has laid its ragged coat across our way…
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| I lie ready to be swayed |