| Trapped up in my keeper’s room, the pride of the circus tent
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| Brought there for my safety, to hide among the made-up beds
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| Outside magic filled the carefree eastern streets
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| I could feel a stomach churn beneath the polished teak
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| They all dressed as swallows with feathers in their hair
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| And all that night they laughed and danced
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| While the walls shook the gas chandeliers
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| I trumpeted and I roared, but no one seemed to hear
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| Shoulder blades beneath the water slid closer every year
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| Men in suits proudly talked of the pointed peak
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| Pillars of flames built armies who were hungry and had to eat
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| They all dressed as swallows and songbirds bearing gifts
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| And I could feel it in my bones
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| Something out there somewhere had to give
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| Narrows canals no longer flow, and nothing happens here
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| And even in the afterlife an elephant can’t forget
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| Skull and bones of a Bengal tiger wash in the sea
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| A reminder of that August night when the Island disappeared
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| They all dressed as swallows and songbirds on that eve
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| Falls of ashes pouring down as the ocean turned into a milk-white sea |