| Passion was my first-born child,
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| I raised her pure, I raised her wild,
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| Took her where no child should ever go.
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| She burned the bridge, cut the trees,
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| Ripped each root out on her knees,
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| Every single door was left wide open.
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| And all the people of the town
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| Tried to keep Passion down,
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| Said that I should keep her locked and bound.
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| And I never heard it when she fell,
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| Just found her shoes next to the well,
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| My Passion sleeping cold deep underground.
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| Blow, wind, blow
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| But you will never blow away my sorrow.
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| My second child, I called her Love,
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| And I thanked the Lord and the stars above
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| That I’d received a heart full overflowing.
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| And I built a house, wood and stone,
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| Myself, my wife, and child at home,
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| Happy just smiling at the walls.
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| But late one night upon the road,
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| I could not find my way back home,
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| And I stepped into a cold, dark doorway.
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| And I took a drink, maybe four,
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| Took another five or more,
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| And thought I heard Passion calling for me.
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| For seven days and nights alone,
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| Inside that gutter deep I crawled,
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| Until I found that house on that ground.
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| But when I got up close I saw
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| Love did not live there anymore
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| And no one knows where Love can be found.
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| Blow, wind, blow
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| But you will never blow away my sorrow.
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| My last-born child, I called her Pain,
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| Sorrow was her middle name,
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| I built high walls to keep her safe from harm.
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| But late at night I climb the walls,
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| And there’s this gap through which I crawl,
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| And I can see how strong my Sorrow grows.
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| Blow, wind, blow
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| But you will never blow away my sorrow.
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| Blow, wind, blow
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| But you will never blow away my sorrow.
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| Blow, wind, blow
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| But you will never blow away my sorrow.
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| Blow, wind, blow
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| But you will never blow away my sorrow. |