| I sold my hopes
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| On the street to a young man
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| He had a map and a master plan
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| Tied to his waist was a sword
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| And tender were his words
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| «Why do we all have ready feet?»
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| I sold my hopes
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| Cost me nothing to give them away
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| But it sure meant something
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| Something I found hard to display or recognise
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| Seen it all before through these tired and weary eyes
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| I can’t let that happen to you
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| No, not for the life of me
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| I’m barking up the street
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| It only echoes back at me
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| I intend to find that face I’ll recognise
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| What’s that?
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| Through the crowd I see him bow
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| But it’s me he sees right through |