| Lookout my son
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| Stare straight into his eyes
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| You can’t hide from the wicked you’ve done
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| But don’t fret, in this life you’ll be terribly missed
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| As you enter the others
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| And they’ll open the earth
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| Prepare our little white beds
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| And a stone to say here rests your sweet little head
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| In the morning the dew settles down on the grave
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| That now is your home
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| But on into the night, we’ll rise right up from the grave
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| And we’ll find them and stare them all dead in the face
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| This machine won’t forget a single thing that you’ve done
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| In this life and others.
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| Six feet down’s where you’re gonna sleep
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| Six feet of this earth’s gonna set you free
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| Six feet down’s where you’re gonna sleep
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| And my face will be the last that you see
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| I must confess I wished to find the boy
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| In the midst of some unthinkable crime
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| But when the moment came to end his life
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| I looked into his hopeless little eyes
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| And I turned away
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| And I recalled my father many years before
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| As we sat and watched a robin mend her torn and tattered nest
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| Only to have the wind come knock it down again
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| And I cursed the evil gale that cast her nest
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| And shattered each and every egg
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| And I hear my fathers voice once again
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| And he says,
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| «We must forgive.»
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| Oh don’t you know
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| I’m the dirt’s dirt
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| Worse than the worst you’ve ever known
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| I built my home out of prickers and wire
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| And from my windowsill I see
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| That there’s never been any hope for me |