| In Greece, as I’ve said
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| Verse and lyre set the rhythms of action
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| And afterwards music and rhyme are games, pastime
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| Everything grows
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| Cause anything goes
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| We cannot know
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| Because we are inside it
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| Everything grows
|
| Cause anything goes
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| I’m almost the island
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| I’m almost the island
|
| In Greece as I’ve said
|
| Verse and lyre set the rhythms of action
|
| And afterwards music and rhyme are games, pastime
|
| Keeping only quietness
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| We gather, we gather, we gather, we gather
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| We gather up the fruit of the mind
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| Pen pushers and authors always full of numbers that crumble
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| The poet is truly the fire stealer
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| The poet is truly the fire stealer
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| The stealers, the stealers, the stealers, the stealers, the stealers
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| Everything grows
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| Cause anything goes
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| What do we remind you of?
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| And when you come around the show
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| You’ll never make it up that fast
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| When no one else considers more
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| And I can tell you one more thing
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| You’ll never come back here for more
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| There’s nothing but a broken stand
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| And lovers crouching on the floor
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| Everything grows
|
| Cause anything goes
|
| We cannot know because we are inside it
|
| I’m almost an island
|
| But not quite yet
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| I’m almost an island
|
| But not quite yet |