| Say have you seen that place where fireflies in great profusion come out to
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| dance as evening falls
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| Say have you heard the chattering whippoorwills cry out for you, son
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| Or felt the strident bullfrogs call
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| Far to the west across the stretch of marshland meadow where the road dips past
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| the ancient bishop house
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| Rises that mystic bulky hill no one would speak of where no answers come from
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| asking why or how
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| Though superstition it might be
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| The elders know what they have seen
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| And had you been there you would surely agree
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| They say if you haven’t
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| Then you shouldn’t go to Sentinel Hill
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| Lead: Vega
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| Atop the hill inside the ring of massive granite pillars
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| And round the ghoulish table rock
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| Though often attributed falsely to the native Indians
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| Where found remains of mongrel stock
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| Back in the days before the trials and persecution
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| Some say witches used to gather here at night
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| At devil’s hop yard where they held their executions
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| Still the moss may seem to glow with eerie light
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| Though superstition it might be
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| The elders know what they have seen
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| And had you been there you would surely agree
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| They say if you haven’t
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| Then you shouldn’t go past the boundaries of sanity
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| Up the the slanting trail to Sentinel Hill
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| Ancient wisdom passed down through the bloodlines
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| They say if you haven’t
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| Oh, God knows you shouldn’t go to Sentinel Hill
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| Lead: Vega
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| Lead: Rockbag
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| Lead: Vega
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| They say if you haven’t
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| Then you shouldn’t go to Sentinel Hill |