| In Fleet Street I lay down to sleep
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| In the seediest journalist bar
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| And in my sleep a vision I dreamed
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| From afar
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| In celestial mist made of light
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| An angel that blinds mortal eyes
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| This vision I knew knew no wrong
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| Only right
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| He took my hand and showed me things I’d never dreamed
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| The veil blinding me was lifted
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| And truth shone, a beacon beaming
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| The vision said softly to me
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| «The people are becoming to free
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| And if you want to sever the tea (?)
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| Oh baby
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| Peregrine is looking grim
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| The economy is falling to pieces
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| It seems quite hopeless
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| Stand steadfastly by the friendly in exchange with free
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| Broadcast calls for order and law
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| Yet all shall be well, all shall be well"
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| The Holy Ghost bid me be bold
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| For wisdom that’s weight out of old (?)
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| Could will if it was spread among men
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| Once again
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| The vision departed me then
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| And I awoke cold and distant
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| I knew my mission |