| Fires of the lighthouse burning in the bay
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| Waters of the sound sleeping through the day
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| Ostrich of the night half buried in the sand
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| Nearer comes the man, sickle in his hand
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| Battles in the back seat, soap box car
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| Black-bolt lightning car I don’t care who you are
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| Fires of the lighthouse, sounds of the guitar
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| Far beyond a cure, far beneath regard
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| Death where is thy sting?
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| In the trails of Sunfish sails and curve stitch string?
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| Black mass ghosts of half-chewed hosts
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| Off the Henlopen coast in the saltwater spring
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| You arrive washed up in the tide
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| Normally alive with your consolation boots of Spanish inquisition eyes
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| Prancing around the stage at your advancing age
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| Offering stale communion to the presbyters of time?
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| Cousins on the swing set, rabbits in the grass:
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| Is it too much to ask to reproduce the past?
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| Stories of the ice boat wreck kept us warm
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| Sheltered from storm on the ocean floor
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| And in the morning, we rest in Corinthian headdress
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| On couches of ivory
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| And wake in the moonlight
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| Like badgers at midnight
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| To friends made in factories somewhere
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| You’ll know where to find us, our best years behind us
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| Barefooted pilgrims at shrines of our youth:
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| 'Our joy was electric, our circles concentric…'
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| Converging on statues of permanence
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| Death where is thy sting?
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| You ought to put more thought into what you bravely sing
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| Aft-mast ships of straw-short bricks
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| You’ll soon see exactly where my victory is
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| The spring to its slumber
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| Your lighthouses black
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| Like virginal slumber
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| I’ll break like the lap
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| Of your Delaware shore
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| Your Blue Hen remains
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| Will dissolve at my door
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| Like a teaspoon of salt in the rain
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| And I’ll wrap up your absence
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| In blankets of reverence
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| A mastodon shadow
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| Divided by zero
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| And comfort your family
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| With words like eternity
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| And friends made in factories somewhere |