| Stretch the palms, grabbing the sky
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| Direction parts but he managing fine
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| He means that bleak black, green pack wrapped in the white
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| Hang looser than the family ties
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| Trapped in the mind, heater off to a gloom
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| On a throne built from bones and the parts of his tomb
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| Bars commit more with the staff at the stoop
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| You can catch him at the marsh or the moon like Looms
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| Uh, you can run but you can’t hide
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| Being low in this the awful way you’re found
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| Running tracks ain’t the same as seeing finish lines
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| Sitting by the riverside puffing grey clouds
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| In your rainbow, still with the raincoat
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| Pocket been carrying the kings like Parliament
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| Twist spliffs in the mist, grass artisans
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| Rip lips from the quip bark charlatans
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| Can I tell you something
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| Never told anyone before?
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| Oh, Looms be thick as the smoke
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| See the sinner grew thinner and move the mirror remote
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| The lyrics and codes be promissory notes
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| Sees the seas but he ain’t ever missing the boat
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| It’s high tide in the brightside burn the neck learnt
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| Lessons learned in depth from the damage of days
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| Carry the weight, still the charity case
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| And he’s still most languid where we happen to lay it
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| Soup high new life, bruised from the start
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| But it’s calm when humans in the dance or whatever
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| So, for now, let us dance in endeavors
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| You would never see the last of our efforts
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| So the low stay subterranean
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| Bright as the night, very bathed in its radiance
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| Pen gripped to grade the lace to the cranium
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| Never been about raiding the salience
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| Nohidea, no idea |