| If you live inside the old graveyard
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| Your skin and bones get kind of hard
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| You blame it on all of the ones who left you
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| If you’re in the closet with a broom
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| Why don’t you sweep around the room
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| Make little piles of all the things you don’t understand
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| But it’s in the mouth, it’s in the blood
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| It’s sweet, the taste, the spit of love
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| Poor skin, too thick to understand
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| The gravity and graceful plans
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| In the place that’s made of old relations
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| Where some got loved, some got hated
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| How absently you move around, how listless
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| How in the night the battle raged
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| Under the blankets, were we brave
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| At least enough to recognize the storm is just a storm
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| Shine the lights across the bridge
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| The surface you can’t follow it
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| The glossy night, the wind in fits
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| Get girders buckling at their bits
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| Will I be this way when I’m dead
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| Will I go home and go to bed
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| Will I wake up and wonder
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| Did something happen here
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| The weatherman, well he should know
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| The doctor, too, from down below
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| They call to one another ‘cross the riding in the night
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| Don’t forget, you’ve got love
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| You’ve got bravery, you’ve got trust
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| You’ve got bodies, responsibilities
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| There’s still mountains, they’re pushing up from underneath
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| You’ve got pain, caused plenty of
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| It’s not so strange but now you’ve had enough
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| Don’t forget your bones and skin
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| Or where you go, or where you’ve been |