| The blood, the sweat, the tears I’ve shed.
|
| What I’d bend for the ends, well. |
| that depends
|
| on the prize and the pride of the name that I inherited;
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| dirty hands; |
| clean heart; |
| rose up from the sediment
|
| I ain’t trying to build a mansion or expand a settlement
|
| or be an empty-headed guest on Letterman (fire!)
|
| Gotta keep the engine purring, and the fire stoked,
|
| redemption round the corner, holding onto higher hopes.
|
| Bigger than the music and all the liner notes — the good, the bad and
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| everything that I had hoped.
|
| What is the trade-off in your life, What did you pay? |
| What is the price?
|
| What did you way it up against? |
| Was it worth it? |
| You compromise so much that
|
| you forgot what you want. |
| You are the sum of it all, is that what you want?
|
| Report read 'she's a dreamer, something wrong, we should screen her'
|
| How could they know the carnival in her fix when life got grim.
|
| If only they could taste the real thing,
|
| beneath their feet, beyond the ceiling.
|
| Like hounds, they’d be stuck on it, chasing, loving, hating, bathing,
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| shaking it. |
| They’d be doped on the feeling of it, move mountains clothed in it.
|
| Battle waves that swallow ships just to get a hit
|
| I run myself (away-oh) into the ground (away-oh).
|
| I live up to my father’s name
|
| Once more at a crossroads, looking up at signposts.
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| All of those lives you’ll never live and cannot know. |
| So I wonder,
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| will I wander or hold my line? |
| And I find myself longing for what can never be
|
| mine
|
| This tale’s tied together with invisible threads, lingering on what she said.
|
| What if instead of a missed opportunity, it just wasn’t meant to be?
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| Please believe I never faked what it meant to me. |
| Everything must change,
|
| don’t I know it, in a moment, hesitate and you’ve blown it.
|
| You want to know the possible,
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| but it would freak you out if you were shown it,
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| so I’m holding my course until this road ends. |
| I know the pen is constant,
|
| but the ink is transient. |
| More inclined to letting it ride than planning it.
|
| So I take my lumps, 'cause I wrote this story: it’s always feast or famine;
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| always death or glory. |