| Someone told a story
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| About a man who’d live through Hell
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| And stumbled, orphaned, to his home
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| To find the servants living well
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| And how they welcomed him like family
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| As they plotted out some deed
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| To kill him in his sleep and stay
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| To satisfy their greed
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| I thought of who it is who’s story gets remembered in the end
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| And through how many careful tellings does one practice their defense
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| Some nuances the narrator selectively omits
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| A once collective memory is destined to forget
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| Yeah we make decisions that account for the worlds that we live in
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| We make explanations that amount to the ones we envision
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| It isn’t just the horror of the way he killed those kids
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| But the way the tale was told explained away the deed he did
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| You know that everybody needs a place to live
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| You show your willfulness to ignorance with the council that you give
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| The testimonial performances belie the lies you’ve lived
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| Another actor on the podium feels slighted by the ways
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| And abstractions been amended on some broken, bygone days
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| Yeah but these politics have victims, they get stuck there in the space
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| Between the weight of great ideals and the narratives they shape
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| It wasn’t you there with the handgun, but your fax machine and pen
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| Your personal computer, and your business acumen
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| Appeal to a notion that we all deserve what we can reach for
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| That what sits in your sight is a God-given right
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| Yes in spite of the slights you can’t speak for
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| Sees fairness as a function of the rules that you can’t bend
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| Takes action over nothing but the naked will to win |