| Oh, the razor in your apple
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| The affection of your glove
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| The prison of your company
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| The snake oil of your love
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| The heights to which you drag me
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| Just to hurl your scorn
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| The trumpets play the livelong day
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| But they blow so forlorn
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| Did you hold the hand that held me down?
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| Did you laugh at my expense?
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| When there’s rust upon your ragged crown
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| Who will stand at your defense?
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| And when I unveiled my weakness
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| On your rodeo of tears
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| You stood there so vacantly
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| Your fingers in your ears
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| And you left by the morning
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| With all that’s left to steal
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| But every time you say farewell
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| There’s breadcrumbs at your heels
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| Did you kiss the hand that held me down?
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| Was your kindness just pretense?
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| When there’s no one left for you to clown
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| Who will stand at your defense?
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| But it’s ashes, Lord, it’s ashes
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| Soon we all fall down
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| You take your place among the saints
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| Make not a single sound
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| And the hills that held our childhood
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| The flowers grow there still
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| You lay beneath them, pushing weeds
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| And I guess you always will
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| Could you be the hand that held me down?
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| When I was sick with common sense
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| And now your statuettes are all torn down
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| There’s no one left to lean against
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| And ever since your epitaph
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| Was spattered on my wall
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| No one comes to call
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| They can’t stand the stench
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| But I still sing your praises
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| Every time the curtain calls
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| The burden on me falls
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| Yeah, I alone stand at your defense |