| Talking, what’s it good for?
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| Absolutely nothing
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| Wrestle, let’s wrestle
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| You can pin me to anything
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| Thought I saw you in my tea leaves
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| Thought I saw you in a forest flame
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| I’ll fill up the silence with the sound of your holy name
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| Knowledge of the sea-ways, knowledge of how the water flows
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| Whoever coined the phrase has never had to brave the snow
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| I climbed the shroud to the top-sail and I peeked through the glass
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| The curvature bisected by a wintry mizzen mast
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| The scar upon my stomach, I call it my Flying V
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| And every time I show it, I can feel your eyes on me
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| How many islands will surrender to the blunderbuss?
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| And how long must we sail before you show your face to us?
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| Followed him out to the end of the pier
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| «Don't come any closer,» he cried, «I am afraid
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| Of the man I’ll become if I lay my
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| Life down for a people who I don’t even care for.»
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| Face to his face, I put my
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| Hand into his and I tried to tell him, «No
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| I’ve seen his work upon the panes of cathedrals
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| In the sweat of the workers and the flight of the seagulls.»
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| My words were drowned out by the sound
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| Of the motors and rowers, the ship as it ran aground
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| And from the trees came a thousand soldiers
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| I went down on my knees with a spear in my shoulder
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| About face, about face, I swam back
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| To the Victoria. |
| I shiver with the
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| Memory, memory of the island dwellers
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| And the indifferences of the Storyteller |