| The boy is listening to those records from the past
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| He wants to make them last
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| For they make him feel alive
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| They are the voices of the faces on the wall
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| He listens to them all
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| Hangs on every little tale they tell
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| Knows them all and their life stories
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| Shares their pain and shares their glories
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| One day he even cut their names upon his skin
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| They mean that much to him
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| For them he’d take the test
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| His bedroom window opens to the evening air
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| The fox is in his lair
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| The volume of his system is full on
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| But the neighbors moan and the parents call
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| This angry noise is the muzak of the wastelands
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| Wastelands, the wastelands, wastelands
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| The boy is dressing in the fashion of the day
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| The kids all dress that way, you can tell them anywhere
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| The boy looks out and sees his friends are waiting there
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| In the cold electric glare
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| Of those lamps that make you think that night is day
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| They drag their lusts into your sight
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| With shouts and screams they meet the night
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| They block your way in twos and fours
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| In uniforms from city stores
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| They’re closing in, who knows the score
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| It won’t be long before
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| A martyr’s blood is nourishing the wastelands
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| Wastelands, yes, it won’t be long before
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| A martyr’s blood is nourishing the wastelands
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| Wastelands, the wastelands
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| Wastelands, oh, wastelands
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| Wastelands, yes, it won’t be long before
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| A martyr’s blood is nourishing the wastelands
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| A martyr’s blood is nourishing the wastelands
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| Wastelands, oh, wastelands |