| In ancient Palestine, a Roman middle manager
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| Dresses down a radical
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| «I have a backlog of so-called prophets
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| You are of a multitude»
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| The offender said, «I witness truth»
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| Perplexed and filled with pique
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| The jailer replied, «Truth, what is it?»
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| Outside of Darlington, 1963
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| On certain mornings a specter appeared
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| In a well-appointed back garden
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| Its voice was still heard
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| After the sun had burned away its image
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| Consulting physicists and mediums
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| The man he realized
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| It was a relative living a 1000 miles away
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| Half sister was thinking of him
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| Very poorly on those mornings
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| In Northern Michigan
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| There was an incident in winter
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| A horse was hit by lightning
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| And began to speak in a foreign language
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| When he was finally understood
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| It repeated, «Humans are no good»
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| So they shot it behind the shed and stuffed him
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| He’s now on display as a lesson
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| For the kids to always do your best
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| Do your best always
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| Truth is a colicking horse
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| That serves no purpose
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| Truth is a babbling prisoner
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| You’d rather not kill if they confess
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| Truth is the half sister
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| That will not be forgotten
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| Truth is the half sister
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| That will not forgive
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| She is trying to reach you
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| Trying to reach you
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| She is trying to reach you
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| Trying to reach you
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| She is trying to reach you
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| Trying to reach you
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| She is trying to reach you
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| Trying to reach you |