| Sliver of sundown, glimmer of daylight
|
| Running in place with trembling knees
|
| Vision of lightning, vision of sunrise
|
| Overlay worlds on the grid of our dreams
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| And knock 'em all down
|
| With a last looming wave
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| Black as old blood
|
| With a warm, steady rage
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| And the crack of old bones
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| Yankee go home
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| Choking on signal, sucking on silence
|
| Sodium lights on the monument’s face
|
| Radio London, Radio Cyprus
|
| Where the Lincolnshire poacher’s shaking his cage
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| He was sold for a lifeline, sold for a crown
|
| Singing an old lie down the repeater
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| But the radio lapses, the radio dies
|
| The sky is a blank screen, an open receiver
|
| Summon an old sound, rattle to life
|
| Spin on an axis, fly into pieces
|
| In disarray
|
| Lie in disarray, disarray
|
| I need it, I need it, I need it |