| It keeps me up at night
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| I’m not certain I was right
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| I’m consumed by what might have been
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| Again and again and again
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| And now the sky is turning black
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| Now the sirens are calling
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| This neighborhood was mine once
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| But now it’s strange and foreign
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| My body’s drenched and my fists are clenched
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| As I stare into the night
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| And this street, the silent type
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| It hasn’t had much of a life
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| And watches people come and go
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| And knows they’re interchangeable
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| The derelicts and debutants with so much in common
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| The pedophiles and the parents who are all too human
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| The churches on the corners where they beg forgiveness now
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| And Jesus comes to me in my dreams
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| He tells me that I still have a home
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| He keeps talking about a place I can go
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| Well, always loved, always forgiven, but I know
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| I won’t ever be there
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| I know I won’t ever be there
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| I know.
|
| The derelicts and debutants with so much in common
|
| The pedophiles and the parents who are all too human
|
| The churches on the corners where they beg forgiveness now
|
| And Jesus comes to me in my dreams |
| He tells me that I still have a home
|
| He keeps talking about a place I can go
|
| Well, always loved, always forgiven, but I know
|
| I won’t ever be there
|
| No, I won’t ever be there
|
| No, I won’t ever be there
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| I know… |