| Through the rain and all the clatter
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| Under the Fremont bridge I saw a pigeon fly
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| Fly in fear from the raptor come to take its life
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| And as it closed in for the capture
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| I funneled the fear through my ancient eyes
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| To see in flight, what I know are the bitter mechanics of life
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| Under my hat it reads «the lines are all imagined»
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| A fact of life I know to hide from my little girls
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| I know my place amongst the bugs and all the animals
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| And it’s from these ordinary people you are longing to be free
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| My hotel and on the TV
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| A preacher on a stage like a buzzard cries
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| Out a warning of phony sorrow, he’s trying to get a rise
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| The cyanide from an almond
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| Let him look at your hands, get the angles right
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| Ace of spades, port of morrow, life is death is life
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| I saw a photograph: Cologne in '27
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| And then a postcard after the bombs in '45
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| Must’ve been a world of evil clowns that let it happen
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| But now I recognize, dear listeners
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| That you were there and so was I
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| Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah
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| Under my hat I know the lines are all imagined
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| A fact of life I must impress on my little girls
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| I know my place amongst the creatures in the pageant
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| And there are flowers in the garbage, and a skull under your curls
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| Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah… |