| The day will come at a redrawing of the boundaries when Pilsudski will rear his
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| head in Iberia,
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| Because he’s been moving west for centuries,
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| Creeping every time that Mazzini turns in his grave.
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| And I have watched his drift with sallow skin and with longing for the western
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| coasts where he would lay his head and get well.
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| For he has caught a disease that makes him bleed when breathing.
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| They sent him south for the cure to the shores of the Starnbergersee.
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| So the day will come when I pack my things and move west into the setting sun,
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| Because my strength has failed,
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| I am fading.
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| So will you till my fields and will you tend my sheep until I get back,
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| Because I will be coming home,
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| My health restored.
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| And if Josef can lose himself in the dark of the continent then surely there
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| must be a way that I can cough up the last of the continent and lose myself.
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| Nineteenth Century science cannot soother my chest.
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| Staggering through Europe,
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| I keep on heading west.
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| My medicine is a setting sun. |