| In city shoes of clueless blues
|
| Pays the views and no man’s news
|
| Blades will fade from blood to sport
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| The heroin’s cut these fuses short
|
| Smokers rode a colonial pig
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| Drink and frame, this pain I think
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| I’m melting silver poles my dear
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| You bleed your wings and then disappear
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| The moving scenes and pilot lights
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| Smithereens have got 'em scaling heights
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| Modern times come talk me down
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| And battle lines are drawn across this town
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| Parisian boys without your names
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| Ghetto stones instead of chains
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| Talk 'em down 'cause it’s up in flames
|
| And nothing’s changed
|
| Parisian boys without your names
|
| Riot like 1968 again
|
| The days of rage, yeah, nothing’s changed
|
| Well pretty flames
|
| In school, I would just bite my tongue
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| And now your words, they strike me down
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| The flags are false and they contradict
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| They point and click which wounds to lick
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| On avenues, this Christian breeze
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| Turns its heart to more needles please
|
| Our eyes roll back and we beg for more
|
| It frays this skin and then underscore
|
| The case for war you spin and bleed
|
| The cells you fill screen savers feed
|
| The girls you breed, the soaps that you write
|
| The graceless charm of your gutter snipes
|
| The moving scenes and suburbanites
|
| And smithereens got 'em scaling heights
|
| Modern times come talk me down
|
| The battle lines are drawn across this town
|
| English boys without your names
|
| Ghetto stones instead of chains
|
| Hearts and minds, and U.S. planes
|
| Nothing’s changed
|
| And English boys without your names
|
| Riot like the 1980's again
|
| The days of rage, yeah, nothing’s changed
|
| More pretty flames |