| I better think of my answers now
|
| Because I know the questions will be asked
|
| Like if I brought the joy I found
|
| In the confessions of a mask
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| The tip of my tongue’s already
|
| Touching the top of my mouth
|
| It’s meaning manifest in mercy
|
| Burning down, burning down
|
| Burning down, burning down
|
| Burning down, burning down
|
| Burning down the house
|
| It’s true that tactless teem totem-poles
|
| Turn tolerance to tired taboos
|
| It’s true that a bullet never knocks on the door
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| It’s about to come crashing through
|
| I walking one last mile in big steps as your alter-wine
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| I’m doing it in tattered shoes that aren’t even mine
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| Because my own are in a box locked up with possessions I can’t have
|
| Like the gunman with his future and the prison priest’s golden calf
|
| Walking one last mile
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| Walking one last mile…
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| Blindfolds aside, I’d probably still close my eyes
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| And try to feel a trembling fetal life inside
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| That shotgun barrel that’s about to make me bleed
|
| Like an ulcer in the stomach of the beast
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| Like a little girl on a bed that was years ago deceased
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| Resurrected last night with a letter she can’t trace
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| Resurrected to be killed then maybe born again
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| I’ll always be Kezia as long as any hope remains
|
| Resurrected to be killed then maybe born again
|
| I’ll always be Kezia as long as any hope remains
|
| Resurrected to be killed and then maybe born again
|
| I’ll always be Kezia so long as any hope remains |