| Men were made to talk, babies born to cry
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| Tears’ll make 'em taller, fear of God gets in their eyes
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| Sticks and stones may break my bones
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| But words will cut me down to size
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| Well I used to stand much taller, but I’ve learned to know my place
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| Used to scream and holler, now I quietly say grace
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| With a smilin' face
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| This old house acts mighty tired
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| Groans when I get up and it sighs when I retire
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| Sticks and stones may crack windows
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| But words will start a fire
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| So long, see ya ceiling; |
| catch you later, kitchen floor
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| C’est la vie, old TV that I watched when I was bored
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| Back screen door
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| This plot of land may look alone
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| Once there stood a body, all that’s left is skin and bone
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| Sticks and stones may shelter some
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| But words will make it home |