| We have spent rudderless nights waking up on a sail of regret
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| She’d sit up, upon the bed, and angled to the west
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| Dipped our fingers in, oh, the water, it was wet
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| Dampness and shame, salty curls around the napes of our necks
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| Punctured by the compass needles, riled with certainty
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| The rescue boats are useless when none of us can agree
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| Hear the briny call, the ocean’s gusty gnashing of her teeth
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| Breaking up the pretty cups and taking what she needs
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| There’s a knocking on the hull, you hear it
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| There’s bones a-rattling under us
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| We set out without the smarts to fear it
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| With ignorance and gutless trust
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| Tell me once again if everything is as it seems
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| If things are getting better, what’s that crashing down the stream
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| The wind, you say, the storm that came, remember our retreat
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| And darker days might come and stay, and signal our defeat
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| If drug up from the muck, I reel in what I hope will be
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| A trove of golden apples from the golden apple tree
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| Flush with fertile seeds, I give them all away for free
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| For this our people should be known throughout all history
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| But from here we crouch and watch the plunder
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| Of the world we built with sweat and love
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| Why were you not built for wonder
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| Why will you never get enough
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| You say when you landed you could tell
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| That your conquest would go well
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| Thought you wet yourself with fear
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| You were sure your god was near
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| The wind, you say, the storm that came
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| And darker days might come and stay |