| Why do you do the things you’ve done
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| And how dumb would you have to be
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| To do them again like I know you’re going to
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| If you’re the poet you say you are and beauty’s in everything you see
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| Then how can love exist in a world run by people like you
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| Because when there’s suffering, you’re there
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| From southern trees, you hang them in the air
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| The world screams out in agony and you don’t care
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| But should the shit hit the fan
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| I just pray you will not be spared
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| Fuck you
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| You took a heart with so much room for love
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| And filled it with hatred and rage
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| Until there was nothing left but for it to shrivel up and die
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| People will tell you that if you don’t love your neighbor then you don’t love
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| God
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| But no god of mine would put light in such unrighteous eyes
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| Now the way we hold each other so tight
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| Would look more like a noose if held up to the light
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| Because we betray each other in dreams every night
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| Now let’s never speak of it again, all right
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| Even now I curse the day, and yet, I think
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| Few come within the compass of my curse
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| Wherein I did not some notorious ill
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| As kill a man, or else devise his death
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| Ravish a maid, or plot the way to do it
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| Accuse some innocent, and forswear myself
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| Set deadly enmity between two friends
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| Make poor men’s cattle break their necks
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| Set fire on barns and hay-stacks in the night
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| And bid the owners quench them with their tears
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| Oft have I digg’d up dead men from their graves
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| And set them upright at their dear friends' doors
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| Even when their sorrows almost were forgot
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| And on their skins, as on the bark of trees
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| Have with my knife carved in Roman letters
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| ‘Let not your sorrow die, though I am dead
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| Tut! |
| I have done a thousand dreadful things
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| As willingly as one would kill a fly
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| And nothing grieves me heartily indeed
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| But that I cannot do ten thousand more |