| I know I loved you then
|
| I think I love you still
|
| But this prophecy of ours
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| Has come back dressed to kill
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| Three stones on a mountain
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| Three small holes in a field
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| You’ve given me the big dream
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| But you can’t make it real
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| O, wicked world
|
| Just think what could have been
|
| Jerusalem, New York, Berlin
|
| All I do is lose, but baby
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| All I want’s to win
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| Jerusalem, New York, Berlin
|
| A hundred years or more
|
| It feels like such a dream
|
| An endless conversation
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| Since 1917
|
| Now the battery is too hot
|
| It’s burning up in its tray
|
| Young marriages are melting
|
| And dying where they lay
|
| O, wicked world
|
| Just think what could have been
|
| Jerusalem, New York, Berlin
|
| All I do is lose but baby
|
| All I want’s to win
|
| Jerusalem, New York, Berlin
|
| Our tongues will fall so still
|
| Our teeth will all decay
|
| A minute feels much longer
|
| With nothing left to say
|
| So let them win the battle
|
| But don’t let them restart
|
| That genocidal feeling
|
| That beats in every heart
|
| O, wicked world
|
| Just think what could have been
|
| Jerusalem, New York, Berlin
|
| All I do is lose but baby
|
| All I want’s to win
|
| Jerusalem, New York, Berlin |