| I am cut from the cloth of Judas
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| And have seen his face in mine
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| The weathered hands that turn the pages
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| Are scattered in the sun
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| My ship has the blackest sails
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| Yet no wind to drive like slaves
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| You cannot see from shore
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| That it casts no shadow upon the wave
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| The sepulchral crawl with us
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| Over land and see they hail
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| Deadened hands upon the rudder
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| Groaning on the gale
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| They will dash you against the cliffs
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| 'Til every brittle bone is broken
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| Jutting rip and gristled knuckle
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| Is gnashing on the foam
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| I am cut from the cloth of Judas
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| From the hangman’s hand itself
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| The long stare of the condemned
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| And the cursed song of slaves
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| «And you who follow me to make
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| Sure I do not exceed the span
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| Given to me on earth I take
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| Care old Shadow of a man
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| Dead God of all my god’s own snake»
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| Free me from the hangman’s hand
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| Free me from the hangman’s noose
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| So bend your knee before the majesty of death
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| You struggle for breath and lay the dead head to head
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| So bend your knee before the majesty of death
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| You struggle for breath and lay the dead head to head
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| So they stretch from the womb to the grave
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| Let us tell you the first journey of men
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| The first murder, the soil so red and barren
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| It burns so red and barren |