| Down in the valley where the veins don’t go
|
| And the tied up tigers smoke the dope
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| And dream of rope fuck with everything with a face
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| And the straight disgrace of a mission on a mountain
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| Of blood tracks to the Queen in a tower of money money money
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| Talking to the train tracks working for the
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| Wrong man dreaming of the perfect tan and the
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| Beautiful voices telling you what you are and
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| The death of poetry on the pages of a magazine
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| Strung out on the perfect set of genes
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| Funny how the days slip by without a thought
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| In the mind or a moment of time with your feet
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| On the ground I know that this will come round
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| Such a beautiful thing that one day all of this
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| Will be gone
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| Nothing is sacred nothing is true
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| Nothing is blue and I don’t mind what you do
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| 'Cause my mind is my mind in spite of you
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| Standing on a spaceship looking for life
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| Or a god or a gun or a matchbook telephone number
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| To the one who might love you or maybe…
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| Maybe… maybe…maybe…maybe…maybe…
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| Maybe it’s time to close the line
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| And step outside and look for the great disaster
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| It must might be faster
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| To close this book myself
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| Isn’t it strange that we’ve come this far
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| And still dont' know who we are…
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| And I don’t wanna be there
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| When it all comes crashing down
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| Somehow there’s gonna be tomorrow
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| Somehow there’s gonna be tomorrow
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| I know… I know… I know… all too well |