| Joseph was a child of light
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| He never disappears
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| Standing up on dim lit stages
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| Shielded by his tears
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| Though he was not a lonesome one
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| His loneliest surprise
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| Was trapped in unseen reservoirs
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| Whose borders were his eyes
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| Lila never quite broke in
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| Never got too used to life
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| Standing up on podiums
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| Her words cut like a knife
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| But when confronted with her skin
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| Irrelevant she’d say
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| If only I’d been born a bird
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| I’d fly them all away
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| I’ve got a problem with right and wrong
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| 'Cause it changes all the time
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| The weakest ones are acting strong
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| So people gotta die
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| Lulabelle was walking home
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| Beneath a crimson sky
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| A cool dry wind began to blow
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| She could feel it in her eyes
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| She came to get some fresh supplies
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| From an undercover cop
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| A box with biohazard signs
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| Is where she makes the drop
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| Franklin was a cameraman
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| A teleprompter scribe
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| And every night he’d tame his hand
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| Just to give it one more try
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| He never had to write the lies
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| Just had to spin 'em right
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| He says if people knew what I do
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| They’d be in the streets tonight
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| I’ve got a problem with right and wrong
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| 'Cause it changes all the time
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| The weakest ones are acting strong
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| So people gotta die |