| Inside my house we had forgotten now
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| Inside my house we had forgotten how
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| To live in the country with three white stones
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| Surrounding a flag of branches and bones
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| Of mirrors of contracts and signed armored clad
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| Of the ways we play circus to hide what we had
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| They won’t tell me what I am to be an American
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| I’m here but my hearts at sea, oh they won’t speak for me
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| And someone spoke too soon they got caught again
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| And the kids they lost their breath in the revolution
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| They settled for houses and for small kids
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| To tell them the stories of when they were young
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| The warriors they thought they’d become
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| Now hide in the surface like the roots from the sun
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| They won’t tell me what I am to be an American
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| I’m here but my hearts at sea, oh they won’t speak for me
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| I will stay up late and dig my own trench
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| I’ll ask all the questions they never present
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| And it’s sick and its vain and it’s hard to explain
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| To question the role or the play of the game
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| Not for your founding father or for the new born threat
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| Not for your radical breach that you tend to forget |
| Not for your good mother or the weight of her debt
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| Not for your children at sea, but your own way to
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| Tell what you are to be an American
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| I can’t live by your words and remain the person which I came
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| They wont tell me what I am to be an American
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| I’m here but I’m loosing my cool, no I won’t wait for you |