| In the night where I live,
|
| There’s strange force in your kiss oh
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| All’s divine in desire
|
| With an ire of philosophy,
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| Burning scrolls in the naked heat,
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| Oh how coy is your little boy. |
| No!
|
| Cause I know it don’t read that well. |
| Yeah!
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| I got buried
|
| No it won’t be long before I rise in
|
| I got buried
|
| No it won’t be long. |
| Yeah!
|
| In the night where I live,
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| Your children sway they fuel the kitch
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| Raise their glass to Soviet cries in the ward,
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| And in shadows
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| Outright, in times of old,
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| Fumes are falling, smell them burn,
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| Like always, yes always.
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| Now here!
|
| Cause I know it don’t read that well.
|
| And I know, only time will tell me
|
| I got buried
|
| No it won’t be long before I rise in.
|
| I got buried
|
| No it won’t be long before I rise in song
|
| And I know it don’t read that well, yeah
|
| I got buried
|
| No it won’t be long before I rise in.
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| I got oh buried
|
| Oh no
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| Cause I know I got you |