| This towns', this towns' religion
|
| I don’t get it; |
| I just don’t get it
|
| Shoot first, think last, forgive me
|
| I don’t get it, but somehow I’m still right here
|
| And this is the world we made, (it's) too late to start again, (I guess)
|
| But at least I know where I belong
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| This town, this towns' religion
|
| I don’t get it; |
| I just don’t get it
|
| Drink more, talk less, so guilty
|
| I don’t get it, but somehow I’m still right here
|
| And this is the world we made, (it's) too late to start again
|
| But at least I know where I belong, the face don’t fit but we can run
|
| €œWhatever must you think of me, Simone? |
| Not offerin' to guide you safely home?
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| The stolen cars that tear the field apart, they’re bearing down on us,
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| we must departâ€
|
| The lovers in the photograph have gone; |
| the lovers in the photograph have flown
|
| Because no lover could believe in, this town, this town’s religion
|
| And this is the world we made, strung out on street parades
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| But at least I know where I belong, the face don’t fit so we should run |