| An address to the golden door
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| I was strumming on a stone again
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| Pulling teeth from the pimps of gore
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| When hatched a tragic opera in my mind
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| And it told of a new design
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| In which every soul is duty bound
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| To uphold all the statutes of boredom, therein lies
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| The fatal flaw of the red age
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| Because it was nothing like we’d ever dreamt
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| Our lust for life had gone away with the rent we hated
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| Because it made no money
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| Nobody saved no one’s life this time
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| So we burned all our uniforms
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| And let nature take its course again
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| And the big ones just eat all the little ones
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| Sent us back to the drawing board
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| In our darkest hours
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| We have all asked for some
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| Angel to come
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| Sprinkle his dust all around
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| But all our crying voices, they can’t turn it around
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| You’ve had some crazy conversations of your own
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| We got rules and maps
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| And guns in our backs
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| But we still can’t just behave ourselves
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| Even if to save our own lives
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| So says I — We are a brutal kind, woah
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| 'Cause this is nothing like we’d ever dreamt
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| Tell Sir Thomas More we’ve got another failed attempt
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| 'Cause if it makes them money
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| They might just give you life this time |