| Walking on a summer day down in Warland Square
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| When we came upon a begging flower with dreadlocks in her hair
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| A younger girl, cyanotic too soon
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| She shoots us back a look, keep that pity to yourself
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| Then she turns away so violently and fixes up again
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| Life-stealing chill digging into her
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| Why have you turned out this way?
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| Have all those cheap shots got you running so far away?
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| Because it owns, owns the rights to your soul
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| Numb like a mortician, funeral parlor cold
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| Somewhere beneath the rot lies a rose
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| Before the poison stream stole the rights to your soul
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| Rights to your soul, rights to your soul
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| Reluctantly I throw some cash and pity in her can
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| Knowing full well that the money is earmarked for a bad plan
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| Admit kindness to a fault, I guess
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| She half smiles, half cries, catch that pity in my eyes
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| Then she looks away within a hurry for her begging cry
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| Christ, she looks on her last leg
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| Why have you turned out this way?
|
| Have all those hot shots got you running so far away?
|
| Because it owns, owns the rights to your soul
|
| Numb like a mortician, funeral parlor cold
|
| Somewhere beneath the rot lies a rose
|
| Before the poison stream stole the rights to your soul
|
| Rights to your soul, rights to your soul
|
| How do you concede young life to a dragon?
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| How about kicking your demons loose for a ride on the wagon?
|
| Why have you turned out this way?
|
| Have all those hot shots got you running so far away?
|
| Because it owns, owns the rights to your soul
|
| Numb like a mortician, funeral parlor cold
|
| Somewhere beneath the rot lies a rose
|
| Before the poison stream stole the rights to your soul
|
| Rights to your soul, rights to your soul
|
| Owns, owns the rights to your soul
|
| Numb like a mortician, funeral parlor cold
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| I remember such a little rose
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| Before the heroin stole the rights to your soul
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| Rights to your soul, rights to your soul |