| There’s a hand at dusk
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| In the wake in the water its mine
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| Can you take the palm of it
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| For every time you change your mind
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| You are the flesh of skin
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| Seen through the leaves of anxious trees
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| The summer’s touch just above the knee
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| Just above the knee
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| There’s architecture here
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| And there are mountain peaks
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| And places dwelled upon by those
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| Who climb much higher than me
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| Like so many miles you are compiled
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| Into books of maps by men with hands
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| Can you believe that we will all get old
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| It’s getting old i know, i know
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| I’ll hold your hair back when you’re sick
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| It’s getting old i know, i know
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| You still look good to me in that knee-length checkered dress
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| It’s getting old i know, i know
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| You still look good to me in that knee-length checkered dress
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| It’s getting old
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| It’s getting old
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| The emperor of time has been stationed
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| Devidends melts into all forms of light (?)
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| I shall crack his bone
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| And chase him to far shores of the sea
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| Implicate my dark appetite
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| The emperor of time has been stationed
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| When the paper ends, it melts into all forms of light (?)
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| I shall crush his bone
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| And chase him to the white shores of the sea
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| Implicate my appetite |