| In the land I like, sun shines down like a peach
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| I love to think of fuzzy hairs of fire swaying so
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| The shaman I saw yesterday told me simply, 'Go'
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| So I calmly left her teepee and went home without a noise
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| The psychics minds are sewing, but the gypsies' hands stay still
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| The worlds around them change and spin, and rain soaks their clothing
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| But, one yells out, whispering, 'It's all clearer to me now'
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| He dances in it, psychics sewing words he’s yet to say
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| The bricks are catty-corner to the grease below them now
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| And every time I look at them I wonder who laid them
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| But, they’ve been here for ages, weather’s touched these natural tiles
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| It’s something I must leave behind and re-visit when I die
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| What I’ve meant to say this time is bugs are coming now
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| It’s after dark, they’re closing in, it was humid out today
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| And, one decides to try and make an entrance in my ear
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| Thinks my head is the bee hive and there the bounty will be found
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| Bugs behaving badly, get 'em to the prison now
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| I tell you, yes, it is their fault, you should spit 'em from the sky
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| But, if you have too kind a heart to cause these things to die
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| Then move on with my admiration trailing from behind
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| Bugs follow on like constellations frozen in the sky |