| We had this fine old place in the country
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| Where we grew melancholy on the lawn
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| Torn between our Sunday worlds
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| We had girl there who rode a motorcycle
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| Moving at ninety miles an hour
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| Towering six feet black
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| Yes we all used to wonder what was happening
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| When we danced half naked in the night
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| Right or wrong we carried on
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| The sons of Cain yeah ooh
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| The sons of Cain yeah ooh
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| The sons of Cain
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| Are Abel
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| We never had such a thing as conversation
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| We used to stare so blindly caring not
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| What was eating at our brains
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| There is a torchlight face I will remember
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| That even I couldn’t pass off as a joke
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| Broken token drowning slow
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| We had a half starved poet writing nothing
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| He used to blurt something out
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| Then scratch his head
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| Felt the sickness ruefully
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| The sons of Cain yeah ooh
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| The sons of Cain and only ooh
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| The sons of Cain
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| Are Abel
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| As I was walking slowly through the lovely garden
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| And someone’s sick homosexual half world
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| Twirled around it maybe love
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| And then when God made summer into autumn
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| Just like the leaves everyone began to fall
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| All, was empty I left too
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| The sons of Cain yeah ooh
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| The sons of Cain and only ooh
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| The sons of Cain
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| Are Abel
|
| The sons of Cain yeah ooh
|
| The sons of Cain and only ooh
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| The sons of Cain
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| Are Abel |