| Among the headstones you played as boys
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| Crypts and tombs like a roomful of toys
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| Just up the river from the smoke and the noise
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| Gethsemane
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| And there’s war-whoops and secret signs in the trees
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| Estuary smells coming up on the breeze
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| O perfect endless days like these
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| O Gethsemane
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| Sailboat on the Cadie, pushbike on the quay
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| In your eyes there’s fire, in your hand destiny
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| ‘O be something, be something fine!'
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| Just down the river, into the noise and the smoke
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| Being daring with the staring, uncaring folk
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| Who laugh with you, laugh at you, you’ll never get the joke
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| Gethsemane
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| And they broke your spirit there in the marines
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| Flushed your head down in the latrines
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| Frozen in your sacrement, derailed in your teens
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| Never saw the enemy
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| And those bosses betrayed, soon let you go
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| The fire in your eyes, how could they know
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| ‘O be something, be something fine!'
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| Now you’ve got your own boys, hell bent for leather
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| Dead before they’re 18, or bitter old men forever
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| They never saw the halo moon rise over the river
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| Of Gethsemane
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| Now there’s a pain in your head puts lead in your shoes
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| Better get it seen to, it’s going to be bad news
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| How did the perfect world get so confused
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| O Gethsemane
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| Who sucked out the freedom, days without end
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| Under the weight of it all you must bend
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| ‘O be something, be something fine!' |