| There’s a man at hand, there’s a way between
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| The sinking sand and a crooked dream
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| And collared off at the modern age of nine
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| Summoned off for walking down the line
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| They lost eyes in old city streets
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| Where the funeral pyres burned the last of the meek
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| He filled his boots and he tipped his cap
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| And a root to toot with the boss and that
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| And told a girl of the summer by the sea
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| Said to her, would you like to go with me?
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| Wind is turned and the concord trucks
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| And the singers changed and the hard to soft
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| And in with changes, always out with time
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| Nothing left but walking down the line
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| They lost eyes in old city streets
|
| Where the funeral pyres burned the last of the meek
|
| Dragging loose less through the den
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| And I come out less with sporting wear
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| More to fit than you’d be feeling now
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| She is aware that he is always how
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| Then her sweetness and his sweeter scented
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| And her fury’s swimming till the fury’s bended
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| And lost in all might be to lost in time
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| What joy the darts might be to walk the line
|
| They lost eyes in old city streets
|
| Where the funeral pyres burned the last of the meek
|
| They lost eyes in old city streets
|
| Where the funeral pyres burned the last of the meek
|
| They lost eyes in old city streets
|
| Where the funeral pyres burned the last of the meek |