| He sits alone in a one small room
|
| Of a shabby railroad flat
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| He reads his yellowed clippings
|
| Folds them up and puts them back
|
| He knows that the world’s not the place that it seems
|
| And oh, oh, oh sweet dreams
|
| There’s somebody there
|
| He stifles his emotions
|
| And he wipes them from his face
|
| He shuffles around his secret things
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| Hidden in their secret place
|
| And nobody knows where the stranger will go And oh, oh, oh you know
|
| That nobody cares
|
| And he comes when he’s summoned
|
| And he does what must be done
|
| And he lives for the movement
|
| He takes pride in being one
|
| Of the lucky and the chosen and the perfect men
|
| And the stranger
|
| Is with us again
|
| And nobody knows where the stranger will go And oh, oh, oh you know
|
| That nobody cares
|
| No nobody cares
|
| And he comes when he’s summoned
|
| And he does what must be done
|
| And he lives for the movement
|
| He takes pride in being one
|
| Of the lucky and the chosen and the perfect men
|
| And the stranger
|
| Is with us again
|
| From a valley in the Rhineland
|
| To the deserts of Iran
|
| From a village they called Jonestown
|
| To a meeting of the clan
|
| No one can know where the strangers will go And oh, oh, oh you know
|
| They’ll always be there
|
| They’ll always be there
|
| And they come when they’re summoned
|
| And they do what must be done
|
| And they live for their movement
|
| They take pride in being some
|
| Of the lucky and the chosen and the perfect men
|
| And the strangers
|
| Are with us again
|
| Yes the strangers
|
| Are with us again |