| From the concrete cities
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| To the wide open spaces
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| Everything is in tension
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| And waiting
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| There’s a little gust of wind
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| And then stillness
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| A little creak of the timbers
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| And then silence
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| We love gallows humour
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| But there must be a gallows
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| And a masked pied piper
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| That everybody follows
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| We will grow weary of ourselves
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| And we will dream a king
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| Then we will bury ourselves
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| Trouble always begins
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| With the naming of things
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| Like gods and desires
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| And lines in the sand
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| And now all the sense of scale is gone, and the splinters think they’re trees
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| And the stones believe they’re mountains, and the rivers think they’re seas
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| And we all gaze down like little gods, our feathers think they’re wings
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| And the glass believes it’s diamond, and the courtiers think they’re kings
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| And the more of this we take inside, the stupider we become
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| The rose and glow of approaching fire, mistaken for the rising sun
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| I am the master of nothing, repeat after me
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| I am the master of nothing
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| I’ve tried never to press to hard
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| I’ve never wanted to leave a mark
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| I’m good with disappearing
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| Like I was never there
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| I’ve always tried never to press to hard
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| Never wanted to leave a mark
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| I’m good with disappearing
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| Like I was never there
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| Never there
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| Now all sense of scale is gone, and the splinters think they’re trees
|
| And the stones believe they’re mountains, and the rivers think they’re seas
|
| And we all gaze down like little gods, our feathers think they’re wings
|
| And the glass believes it’s diamond, and the courtiers think they’re kings
|
| And the more of this we take on board, the stupider we become
|
| The rose and glow of approaching fire, mistaken for the rising sun
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| So let’s all go home now
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| Look ourselves in the mirror
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| Throw our heads back and laugh |