| I remember evenings when my dad would sing
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| Hiding in the hallways, I am listening
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| Keeping still my body until it’s borne aloft
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| Her hair is soft her breath is soft and her name is soft
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| And gather me completely in her sighing hands
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| My dove my dove my lamb
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| Born with ocean thunder underneath our veins
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| Lonelier than cows left standing in the rain
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| Holy when our weight into the waves is tossed
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| Though ships get lost and fish get lost and names get lost
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| She will wait to greet me where it meets dry land
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| My dove my dove my lamb
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| So. |
| Careful of that language babe some words are stones
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| They’ll lead you out from town and leave you all alone
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| Past the mirrored diamond mares that run all night
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| Where camptown ladies sing that song ‘aw come aw wry'
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| But lo they sing it sweetly so I’ll understand
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| My dove my dove my lamb
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| Though my sight be near and my way be long
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| Though the light I chase be disappeared by dawn
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| I have seen her standing on the roofs at night
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| I have seen her silver figure bathed and bright
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| And I have seen her sleeping in the cold white sand
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| My dove my dove my lamb
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| So even in these cities where she’s haunting me Even when my weariness is wanting me Even when my wickednesses want to breathe
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| Even in these dirty clubs counting 1−2-3
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| I will keep a singing til I no more can
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| My dove my dove my lamb
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| And later if I’m better I’ll be born again
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| I’ll pull my newborn body from the thorns and limbs
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| Finding with my fingers where they’ve torn the page
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| From some ancient book all gold and worn from age
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| And writ upon it neatly though in trembling hand
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| My dove my dove my lamb
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| Then later in the evening I hear trumpets ring
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| I stretch out in the dark and I am listening
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| Studying the sadness in your perfect limbs
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| Move them under mine until they learn to blend
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| And I will keep repeating til they understand
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| My dove my dove my lamb |