| I drove you South through the landscape that you love
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| All those medieval towns with the cobbled stones
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| Washed by the blood of the martyrs
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| In the last great stand of the true believers
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| The hilltop villages baking in the afternoon sun
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| The walls pocked with old bullet holes
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| And the iron and the stone that broke the people’s backs
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| All played out for the tourists
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| I’ve always considered it best never to disturb ghosts
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| But it seems that women always want to go straight to the heart of things
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| And as you said, you have your reasons
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| And the roads are like the lines in the palm of my hand
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| Wearing deeper and dividing
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| And for 3am confessions the safest place that I know
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| Is here between departing and arriving
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| But never arriving
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| There was that club we used to go to way out by the park
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| Where the music was loud and the corners were dark
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| And we’d sit in those corners like some kind of witches coven
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| We were so young and brave, always looking for trouble
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| It’s easy to find it when you’re looking for trouble
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| We’d take on all comers when no more would come we’d take on each other
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| So when the phone call came I wasn’t really so surprised
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| I set off with good intentions but soon I was lost
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| And the signs were all graffitied out and the compass needle spinning
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| And the roads are like the lines in the palm of my hand
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| Wearing deeper and dividing
|
| And for 3am confessions the safest place that I know
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| Is here between departing and arriving
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| But never arriving
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| Never arriving
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| Still still never arriving
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| And now I’ve seen the very worst that you could be
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| And you’d have been the witness to the same of me
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| Somehow it should be easy to forgive everything that happened
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| Back on the roads that are like the lines in the palm of my hand
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| Wearing deeper and dividing
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| And for cowards like me the safest place that we know
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| Is here between departing and arriving
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| But never arriving
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| Never arriving
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| Never arriving
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| Never arriving |