| You crossed on Brooklyn Ferry not a boy, but not a man
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| Left behind the Navy Yard
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| And your father’s mislaid plans
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| I was at the other ocean
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| And I could not get away
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| From the flurry of emergencies every single day
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| There was cotton on the killing fields
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| It blows down through the years
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| Sticks to me just like a burn fills my eyes and ears
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| All that came before me is not everything I am
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| A girl who settled far too low
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| On religion and that man
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| The low ebb of the rocky soil
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| The high tide of the trees
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| The dust of men and thunderstorms
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| The parched and rolling sea
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| He’s running through the killing fields
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| Just like a hunted deer
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| Impartial moon, uncaring stars
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| He falls where no one hears
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| The blood that runs on cypress trees
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| Cannot be washed away by mothers' tears
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| And gasoline and secrets un-betrayed
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| I know it’s hard to hear these words
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| They sure are hard to say
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| But listen to the mockingbird
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| Who sings over their graves
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| The ripple of the life unlived
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| The ghosts of mice and men
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| The empty space of one man’s heart
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| And what he might have been
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| But St. Margaret, she looks over us
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| St. Margaret and her kin
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| At the far edge of the killing fields
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| She stands there now and then
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| So goodbye to your Navy Yard
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| Goodbye to my sea
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| A truce between the East and West
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| And my Southern history
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| Goodbye to the killing fields
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| I’ll break every single bow
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| 'Cause all that came before you
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| And all that came before me
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| And all that came before us
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| Is not who we are now |