| We are late like a midnight train that’s running nowhere
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| We are sticks, we are stones, we are broken bones, we are hot air
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| We are under the guillotine trying to fix our hair
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| There’s computers clicking binary genius into the night
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| There are formulas, remedies, reasons, there is hindsight
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| There’s the smell of artillery, there’s the sky alight
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| We are bedrock, we’re underground, we are sharp as the rain
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| We are gathering pace, we are thunder wrapped in cellophane
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| We are running from the storms of our youth into more of the same
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| There’s a motorway service station on a January day
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| There’s a lunchtime radio show, there’s the shit that they play
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| There’s the percussion of buttons and keys in a cyber café
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| We are some distant TV channel, a lesson grown old
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| We are rhythm and rhyme, partners in crime, we are fools gold
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| We are free as the wind through the trees or so we are told
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| There’s some faded out manuscript paper and an old clarinet
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| There is cash on the table, there’s a tapestry alphabet
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| There’s the moon and the tide and all the songs not written yet
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| There’s the moon and the tide and all the songs not written yet |