| Summer death, slow step
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| Walk behind the mother of the thirteen year old brown-eyed boy
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| Attitudes, attitudes
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| Sloganized by middle boots
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| The men who slogged the brown-eyed boy
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| And it’s the end of everything that you’ve been told about
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| Decency, honesty
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| And it’s the end of holding back and breaking bones and building bombs
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| And hanging witch-hunts conducted by men of such opinion
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| Repeat first verse
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| And it’s the end of building roads to load the dead to someone else’s field
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| And it’s the end of falling back on breaking backs and aching handshakes
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| And playing fields conducted by men of such opinion
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| But the fathers crossed you boys
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| I fire so heaven knows it only righteous folk
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| But righteous taste hold the keys to sitting grace
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| To conduct and to proclaim decisions made of such opinions
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| And it’s the time of summer days
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| When children sing about the killing fields
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| Winter melts the snow and knees will crack on rock
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| And the iron on earth beneath the dearth bequeathed
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| Mailshots by men of such opinion |