| Traveling worlds and passing nights
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| From whence you came
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| Surgeons that cut flesh and bone
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| But cause no pain
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| Where gouging eyes
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| And severing hands
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| Make canvases for three
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| For when the morning comes
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| These wounds do heal
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| Three bottles on a servant’s plate
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| Three bottles on a servant’s plate
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| Filled with hands, eyes and heart
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| But servant and soldier
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| Have soiled hearts
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| And ill luck comes creeping in
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| Miserable girl what shall you do
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| Three bottles gone
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| A sinning hand
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| A swine heart
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| And two sly eyes
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| When morning comes the wounds do heal
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| One man runs to where the dirt is deepest
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| Face down and exposed
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| The other’s hands that twitch like a thief
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| And eyes blinded by the night
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| Setting fire wrongs the right
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| Now beg for your bodies back |