| He cut your strings so that he could float — lit by lights, lifted by alcohol
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| Over acres of loving coast, far away from your lonely ghost
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| Now he’s cool and all, floating anchorless. |
| Ports of call
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| Where it’s fabulous, after all of this watching himself just crawl
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| Think you see him? |
| He’s not there, that’s just light that’s not yet dead
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| Wait two hours and watch what’ll be there instead
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| Was he small and cold, like a ring you call up from home
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| Held so tightly his limbs went numb, worn away between your finger and thumb?
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| Well, now he’s bought and sold. |
| Cry his call number down the phone
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| He can’t hear you — he’s on his float, waving down to the folks at home
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| As the cameras love all of his faces
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| They hide all the traces of you in his heart
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| Stand in line to hold forth on his grace
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| But you won’t even get a head-start
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| Get a head-start
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| As his close-up comes cascading down from above
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| The eyes of a nation in love are looking on all of their hopes held up
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| And the words that some screenwriter counted and chose
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| And then set in their sequence and froze
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| Unfreeze on his tongue as he speaks for all of us
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| But one. |
| And honey, he’s gone
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| And baby, he’s everyone’s. |
| In the dark sky tonight
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| Cast your eyes on the dim light
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| That he will become. |
| You’re like everyone
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| Who thinks they see him
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| He’s not there, that’s just light that’s not yet dead
|
| Wait two hours
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| And watch what’ll be there instead |