| See you hunkered on the ground
|
| Magnifying glass in hand
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| Can you focus in one spot for long enough?
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| If you see the whispered smoke
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| Curling vine-like from a leaf
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| You will turn the glass on me
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| That I know for sure
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| Pass the boneyard on the left
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| There’s a secret that I keep
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| Like a tick upon my skin
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| I will take you to that place
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| If you leave your glass behind
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| Not afraid to say «I am afraid»
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| You’ve got to learn which logs to cure
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| Which ones to burn
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| If I rake up all my wits
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| Pile them up into a heap
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| There’s no guarantee that you won’t be the wind
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| Turn a placid day in fall
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| Into a hurricane
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| So if I stay inside again, some windows down
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| You know I’m saying
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| You’ve got to learn which logs to burn
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| Which ones to cure
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| And I wanna say this now
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| When I see you with the timber I will splinter down
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| And paint your arms with scars
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| Paint your arms with scars
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| You won’t ever let me out
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| I won’t ever let you
|
| That would serve me right
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| Would serve me all too right
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| That would serve me right
|
| Would serve me all too right
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| Won’t hear you laugh in my face, what’s your name?
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| Throw down your axe, you’re a mess, what a shame
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| You’ve got to learn which logs to burn
|
| Which ones to cure
|
| And you know it’s now
|
| Not long before the fire’s spent
|
| And all your trouble’s gone to waste
|
| Gone to waste
|
| You’ve got to learn which ones to burn
|
| Which ones to cure
|
| Which ones to do something with
|
| You’ve got to learn
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| Which ones will burn you
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| And which ones will splinter down and paint your pretty arms with scars |