| He said he was a saint
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| And he had some colour movies
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| «you will grow older and then younger
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| Tattoed like a loser»
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| Long streams of silence connect hand to hand
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| With the memories in the car parks
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| And the flowers and the sand
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| So here are the wings and the burnt out suits
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| Here are the maps of all your youth
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| Here where the songs are all of longing
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| Here where the skies are always haunting
|
| And I’m running, yes I’m running…
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| I am Running Across Thin Ice With Tigers
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| He was talking as I glanced away
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| At silver tortures in colour vision
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| It was a golden time
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| A time of bones and flowers
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| There was an angel in a ruined suit
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| Stranded on Broadway
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| I gave him change and he gave me the time of day
|
| So here are the wings and the burnt-out-suits
|
| Here are the maps of all your youth
|
| Here where the songs are all of longing
|
| Here where the skies are always haunting
|
| And I’m running… yes I’m running
|
| I am Running Across Thin Ice With Tigers |