| I was more than just a coward, I was handsome too
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| I felt nothing when your flood came down
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| Holding fines that made me wonder if the lights were wrong
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| with my hands that never touched no ground
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| When your talent is in numbers of the many times you’ve gone
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| I could lie, I don’t care 'bout forgiving
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| but sometimes it’s just roses die too young
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| Ohh
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| Oh
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| As I’m fencing up the hours in the fields of red
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| while you think I’m on a loveless straight
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| In the letters from the lovers in the land gone wrong
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| explanations always written late
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| When your talent curse the framing of the crying you heard sung
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| I could lie, I don’t care 'bout what’s missing
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| but sometimes it’s just roses die too young
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| Ohh
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| Oh
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| your train of thought is always passing you
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| with its falling paint, and its broken gears
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| it’s the damn Revelation Blues when you see the path
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| and you know you won’t be the last
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| oh Lord
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| oh Lord
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| I was more than just a terror, I was crying, too
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| but you showed me in the gust between
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| that a wind is something broken and its flying paths has no meaning nor a ghost
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| within
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| When your talent is in hiding that you’re feeling is always wrong
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| I always want to bring you something
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| but sometimes it’s just roses die too young |