| It seems that we are clams inside our shells
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| Side by side on rocks we feel the tide as the sea contracts and swells
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| Pearls grow from the pain inside we often know so well
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| So languageless, emotionless we must now find
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| Some way to tell the ocean not to worry
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| Ultimately all, predictably, is well
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| Oh fisherman, it seems you’ve lost your net
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| Furthermore, it seems you’re sinking, do not waste time with regret
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| Most of the world is covered in that stuff which constitutes your sweat
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| With which your body’s, for a long time now, been marginally wet
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| I would tell you but I’m not so good with words
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| Language makes a simple feeling seem oh so absurd
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| Anyway, my songs about contentment so far always end in verbs
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| Like «drive», or «run», or «go to sleep, the damage has been done»
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| Life’s not made up of things that must be lost or won
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| But you can live that way if that’s what you call fun
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| Oh karma chameleon
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| Are you in tune to the voice that makes that noise saying your work here is
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| done?
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| And do you dream at night of thoughts inside you’ll never tell no one
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| Unless you find some way to mask them in some sarcastic pun?
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| And oh, misguided secret angel on the run
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| What was so wrong with taking your wings off, a day of working done
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| In your dreams of hell, do you have endless chores or are you banished to
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| boredom?
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| Now you can’t decide if you believe in either one
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| You can’t decide if you believe in either one
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| You’ll not know until you’ve tried, and so you can’t decide
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| You can’t decide if you believe in either one |