| You were sweet and innocent
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| And only seventeen seventeen
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| A beautiful summer’s day
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| And so to church you rode away
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| Birds singing in the sky
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| Philosophers wondering why
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| While vagabonds such as I Sing our songs and cry
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| And vagabonds not like me Stare lustfully at you through the trees
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| They raped you took your life
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| With a cudgel and a knife
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| Little boys' blues
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| What can we do We might come from Hell
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| But we’re too young to tell
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| Little boys' blues
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| What can we do We might come from Hell
|
| But we’re too young to tell
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| Found your body cold and still
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| Abused amongst the daffodils
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| God you allow this deed
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| Do you condone this greed
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| A father and a mother’s grief
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| Are told but without release
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| And when they moved the young girl’s head
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| The soil it bled
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| A church built where she died
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| How her mother and father cried
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| A church built on belief
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| A church built on grief
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| Little boys' blues
|
| What can we do We might come from Hell
|
| But we’re too young to tell
|
| Little boys' blues
|
| What can we do We might come from Hell
|
| But we’re too young to tell
|
| Little boys' blues
|
| Little boys' blues
|
| Little boys' blues
|
| Little boys' blues |