| It’s a new year in an old house
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| With more technology you’ll never understand
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| Break out your typewriter with your «thees» and «thous»
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| Smearing old words with your old hands
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| You’ll call me Cassandra, I’ll call you King James
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| And all we write is true and all of it insane
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| But the changing of the seasons
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| Will forever stay the same, you say
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| The infantry’s retreating
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| Like they knew how this would end
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| Did you hear the Germans lost the war?
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| I bet they could use a friend
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| Right now supper’s getting cold
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| Right now God is growing old
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| Right now dialect is evolving
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| Outside of this house, or so I’m told
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| And it’s a real fear for you and me
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| Burning clothing just to keep the winter warm
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| My fingers trace the gumline of a skeleton key
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| Not caring whether it could open up the door
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| And the faces at the window are children in the womb
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| Black-eyed and still but growing every day
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| You’ll die on the outside, or die in this room either way
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| Our infancy’s receding
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| We’re a heartbeat from the end
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| Did you hear the madmen lost the war?
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| I bet they could use a friend
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| Right now supper’s getting cold
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| Right now God is growing old
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| Right now dialect is evolving
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| Outside of this house, or so I’m told
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| We’re stockpiling warheads
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| We’re stuck in the past
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| Death is art, truth is beauty
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| And the first shall be last
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| You’ll call me Athena
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| I’ll call you Monet
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| When the world is falling down
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| Crumbling like clay
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| We’re hiding in caverns
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| Forgetting our names
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| We dissolve in our mythology
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| Like blood in the rain
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| And you’ll call me the lion
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| I’ll call you the lamb
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| I am lost in all you are
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| You’re alive for what I am |