| The men were here to get your Belgian things
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| They’ll store them for you in an airplane hangar
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| There’s guys in biohazard suits, mud caking on their rubber boots
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| They’ve come to keep your pretty things from danger
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| The men came here to get your Belgian things
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| They’ll spend the whole day hauling them downstairs
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| I shot a roll of 32 exposures
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| My camera groans beneath the weight it bears
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| I can see you in my sleep
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| Playing the points for all your worth
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| Walking gingerly across
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| The bruised earth
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| The men came here to get your Belgian things
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| They waltzed right through the door and went fluorescent
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| Their boots were black and shiny and your treasures gleamed like stars
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| Bones from deep down in the fertile crescent
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| The arteries are clogging in the mainframe
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| There’s too much information in the pipes
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| I saw the mess you left up in the east bedroom
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| A tiger’s never gonna change its stripes
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| I guess, I guess
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| But Jesus, what a mess
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| One way in
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| No way out
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| The men came here to get your Belgian things
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| While I was only here to see them do it
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| I wish you had a number where you are
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| It’s hard with no one here to help me through it
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| I can see you in my sleep
|
| Playing the points for all your worth
|
| Walking gingerly across
|
| The bruised earth |