| When I come home it will be with
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| Someone else’s blood on my shirt
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| Another county’s dirt on the knees of my ripped jeans
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| And I won’t wanna talk about it
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| What you prise from 'tween my fingers
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| That the devil speaks in Scottish brogue
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| A love life under two shadows
|
| But you don’t wanna talk about it
|
| The bus stands still, the landscape scrolls right by
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| (I love you more than ever)
|
| Dual carriageway and landfill line both sides
|
| (I love you more than ever)
|
| Something verdant, something blooming
|
| Something golden, something dead
|
| Cut into uneven quarters
|
| All four seasons in my head
|
| And when I lay you down we’ll be beneath
|
| (I love you more than ever)
|
| Duck feather duvet, new clean cotton sheets
|
| (I love you more than ever)
|
| Something verdant, something blooming
|
| Something golden, something dead
|
| Cut into uneven quarters
|
| All four seasons in my head
|
| Something verdant, something blooming
|
| Something golden, something dead
|
| Cut into uneven quarters
|
| All four seasons in my head
|
| Something verdant, something blooming
|
| Something golden, something dead
|
| Cut into uneven quarters
|
| All four seasons
|
| As you bathe the stains from my skin
|
| Only dirt is washed away
|
| 'Cause all the bad lays far more deep
|
| Please, I don’t wanna talk about it |