| I’ve done everything that can be done to heal this wound
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| Left it on it’s own for years
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| I’ve done everything that can be done to heal this wound
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| Left it on it’s own for years
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| Couldn’t touch it, didn’t pick it, didn’t get it wet
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| It didn’t stop the bleeding
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| I bandaged it, I wrapped it, stitched it, tourniqueted it
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| I held it stiff & aching in the air
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| Held it there til I went beserk
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| Didn’t sleep
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| It didn’t work
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| Didn’t stop it weeping
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| And the wound is your life
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| And your life took on a life of it’s own
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| (Or so you foolishly thought)
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| And your life rolled on over me Bang-Bang like 56 train wheels
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| Every time I heard news of you
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| And the wound was in every lousy song on the radio
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| And the pain was like a tree-fern in the dark, damp, forgotten places
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| Darkness didn’t stop her growing
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| New-born baby cells dividing.
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| Curled up tight unrolling day by day
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| Stretching up, stretching out
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| Forming the same identical shape
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| Clones. |
| There ain’t too much sadder than
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| Clones — relentlessly emerging from the hairy heart of the wound
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| And the fern is beautiful in it’s own way
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| Uncurling in the dark
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| Beautiful with no one there to see it
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| As the would weeps & aches |