| Like carillon bells, the house of Augustus rings
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| With the echoing hymn of my fellow passerine, they took to it
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| Like a fox to a burrow, like an eagle to an aerie
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| And my god, it’s getting hard to even hum a single thing
|
| Cause you were the song that I’d always sing
|
| You were the light that the fire would bring
|
| But I can’t shake this feeling that I was only
|
| Pushing the spear into your side again
|
| See, my birds of a kind, they more and more are looking like
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| Centurions than any little messiah
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| And as I prune my feathers like leaves from a vine
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| I find that we have fewer and fewer in kind, but
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| My palms and fingers still reek of gasoline
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| From throwing fuel to the fire of that Greco-Roman dream
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| Purifying the holy rock to melt the gilded seams
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| It don’t bring me relief, no it don’t bring me nothing that
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| You were the song that I’d always sing
|
| You were the light that the fire would bring
|
| But I can’t shake this feeling that I was only
|
| Pushing the spear into your side again
|
| And again and again
|
| When he comes a-knocking at my door
|
| What am I to do, what am I to do, oh lord
|
| When the cold wind rolls in from the north
|
| What am I to do, what am I to do, oh lord
|
| When he comes a-knocking at my door
|
| What am I to do, what am I to do, oh lord
|
| When the cold wind rolls in from the north
|
| What am I to do, what am I to do, oh lord
|
| When he comes a-knocking at my door
|
| What am I to do, what am I to do, oh lord
|
| When the cold wind rolls in from the north
|
| What am I to do, what am I to do, oh lord |