| She walks around on brass rings that never touch her feet
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| She speaks in conversations that never are complete
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| And looking over past things that she has never done
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| She calls herself St. Matthew, when she is on the run
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| She stoops down to gather partly shattered men
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| And knows that when it’s over it will start again
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| Both the times she smiled it was a portrait of the sun
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| She calls herself St. Matthew, when she is on the run
|
| Part of it is loneliness and knowing how steal
|
| But most if it is weariness from standing up, trying not to kneel
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| She discovered three new ways that she could help the dead
|
| Sometime she must raise her hand to tell you what she said
|
| Then standing in a landslide she suddenly becomes
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| A girl that’s named St. Matthew, when she is on the run
|
| Part of it is loneliness and knowing how steal
|
| But most if it is weariness from standing up, trying not to kneel
|
| She discovered three new ways that she could help the dead
|
| Sometime she must raise her hand to tell you what she said
|
| Then standing in a landslide she suddenly becomes
|
| A girl that’s named St. Matthew, when she is on the run |