| To you who brought me back to life
|
| To twisted thorns that grow inside
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| The shingle washing my old bones
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| Of woe betides and woe begones
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| With just enough love to go 'round
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| For you who's turning me back on
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| Doesn't make it right or wrong
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| The prisoners of the mind
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| Of woe begones and woe betides
|
| And just enough love to go 'round
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| And just enough love to go 'round
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| To you who holds the fireflies
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| Pulls them out from the inside
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| A tiny shell left in my hand
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| Sings woe betides and woe begones
|
| With just enough love to go 'round
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| It's like weed
|
| It's like weed
|
| It's like weed
|
| It's like weed
|
| A boy on a bike who is running away
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| An empty car in the woods, the motor left running
|
| It's like weed
|
| It's like weed
|
| It's like weed
|
| It's like weed
|
| An empty car with the motor left running
|
| Look, this face, it isn't me
|
| Look, this face, it isn't me |