| 33 kids from the Congo
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| Overtook today the barracks of Great Britain unarmed
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| As they stormed the tourist district
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| All the sentries must have missed it no one raised the alarm
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| And well, really
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| I shouldn’t say they were unarmed
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| They were armed with the music
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| Nadia and Essian both play drums that
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| Are made of skin and bones and oxygen
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| Six or seven city blocks apart
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| One has never met the other
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| Breaking sister breaking brother
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| Shaking mother and she hovers
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| In her arms a broken heart
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| And well, really
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| I couldn’t say we go unharmed
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| No, the human body bruises
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| What’s the difference in what we see
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| All the trains run through the station
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| All perspiration through the clouds
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| Is it part of a whole
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| Or it is just me
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| If creation is an act of separation then it’s one we must allow
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| And ideally
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| We are suddenly disarmed
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| We stand quite still before our muses
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| I wanna see every living soul go wild
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| I wanna see us all love our obstructive minds and get movin'
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| I wanna feel everybody feel alive
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| Like we’re ready to die form a line and just keep groovin'
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| 'Cause this is not a drill this time we
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| Either make it to the top of this climb
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| Or we fall to ruin
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| So we’re ready to go to war tonight
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| Swords forged of love and light and I didn’t not see us losin'
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| But who’ll stay in this fight when they start shooting
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| We are unarmed
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| And well, really
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| I should never say we were unarmed
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| Cause we were armed with the music |