| My brother’s blood boils in my arms
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| It balls my fingers into fists
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| It bubbles blisters burns my palms
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| It floods with fury, fights, and fits
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| It’s got the good guy in me hiding
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| It kicks my humble heart around
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| It’s got me fiendin' for the fire that could finish off this town
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| O it’s got me good
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| It’s my brother’s blood on a cherry tree
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| It stains the bark from branch to root
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| It puddles thick with pits and leaves
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| It strains the sweetness from the fruit
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| It’s got me looking for communion
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| A hiding spot off underground
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| An open plot I could climb into
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| A lighting promise in my mouth
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| A blackout oath I swore and meant, but couldn’t conjure up again
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| I don’t know one thing about my brothers blood
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| No, I don’t know one thing about my brothers blood
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| It’s my brother’s blood
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| In my dirty lungs
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| On my crooked mouth
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| On my swollen tongue
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| On my fathers gun
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| On each strangers face
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| Across the bluebird sky
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| On every hand I shake
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| Night after night
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| On each chuckled prayer
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| Such sweet relief
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| A fistful of hair
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| And each desperate try for elusive peace
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| And every endless night
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| And each wasted week
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| All that dialogue doubling back on me
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| All that tangled talk
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| All my growing needs
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| It my brothers back
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| It’s my fathers arms
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| It’s every twisted fact in my sorry heart
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| My sorry heart my sorry heart
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| Spit and scream what’s done is done
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| Go make your peace with everyone
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| They don’t need to know about my brothers blood |