| Breathes there a man with a soul so dead
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| His faith is not shaken nor stirred
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| Breathes there a man with a soul so dead
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| His faith is not shaken nor stirred
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| By the black swamp-blood that beats within these words?
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| Deep within the mighty bog oaks
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| Burke Holder never spoke
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| A word in prayer ere he harvested his trees
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| As the bleeding sap soaked the fallen leaves
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| Doubling back before his deed was done
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| He left scars in the bark like rings
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| He’d hacked their knotty hides to smithereens
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| He turned to face the sun
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| But their shadows overcome
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| Like the broken fingers of an up-jumped, beaten slave
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| Growing tighter till his heartlight choked away
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| Keeping God up all night, begging for mercy
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| No mercy was all he found
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| Strange angels sang while curtains fell around
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| Simple Stewardship you’ve failed
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| Blast the lumberhorns of Hell
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| While buzzards bray their rackety refrain
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| This man has made no mark, he’s left a stain.
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| O come all ye hunters who follow the gun
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| Beware of your wasteful ways!
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| Or soon you’ll be lyin' in the clay of the earth you hate |
| For those who enter his haunted woods
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| Lose their way, it’s understood;
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| Emerging in the morning to a new dawn’s early light
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| But a whole, damn live-long year has passed them by
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| Timber! |
| Dark Timber… in the wilds of the Deadening |