| Up the hill past 694, at the stone wall make a left
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| And I will see you soon, my friend
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| If these old directions still direct, oh yeah
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| If these old directions still direct
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| Is the problem that we can’t see, or is it that the problem is beautiful to me?
|
| Birds of Virginia are flying within you
|
| Like background singers, they all come in threes
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| Like background singers, they all come in threes
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| Won’t soul music change now that our souls have turned strange?
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| Once a day, twice a day
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| When on and off collide
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| We’ll set our souls aside and walk away
|
| We’ve been raised on replicas
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| Of fake and winding roads
|
| And day after day, up on this beautiful stage
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| We’ve been playing tambourine for minimum wage
|
| But we are real, real
|
| I know we are real
|
| Repair is the dream of the broken thing
|
| Like a message broadcast on an overpass
|
| All my favorite singers couldn’t sing
|
| All my favorite singers couldn’t sing
|
| My ski vest has buttons like convenience store mirrors
|
| And they help me see
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| That everything in this room right now is a part of me, oh yeah
|
| Is a part of me
|
| Won’t soul music change now that our souls have turned strange?
|
| Once a day, twice a day
|
| When on and off collide
|
| We’ll set our souls aside and walk away
|
| Realizing is how it feels
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| Inside when it happens to you
|
| So I took a shot of sugar like snow dumped into the blood
|
| And children wander off into the ultra-economic
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| But we’re real
|
| We are real
|
| I know we are real
|
| I know we are real
|
| I know we are real, real, real, real, real |