| Down beneath the swoosh of the turbines, the long grass blows in ripples
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| There’s a beautiful spiral of roads that leads the lost up here
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| I was watching the birds taking off to swoop down over the city
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| They find and take just what they need and turn, turn, turn
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| The movers move, the shakers shake, the winners write their history
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| But from high on the high hills it all looks like nothing
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| The movers move, the shakers shake, the winners write their history
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| But from high on the high hills it all looks like nothing
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| That afternoon on Hustlergate with all the TVs flickering
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| While behind the sky was moving liquid crimson gold
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| Brothers, sisters, pay no heed to the unfaithful messengers
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| For theirs is a prison world of lies, lies, lies
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| Where the movers move, the shakers shake, the winners rewrite history
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| But from high on the high hills it all looks like nothing
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| The movers move, the shakers shake, the winners write their history
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| But from high on the high hills it all looks like nothing
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| The keening wind it blows through me, it blows through me
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| My time it must be almost done, be almost done
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| All these things you fear so much depend on angles of vision
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| From down in the maze of walls you can’t see what’s coming
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| But from high on the high hills it all looks like nothing
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| But from high on the high hills it all looks like nothing, nothing |