| In the darkness of the night
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| Only occasionally relieved by glimpses of Nirvana
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| As seen through other people’s windows
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| Wallowing in a morass of self-despair
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| Made only more painful by the knowledge
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| That all I am is of my own making
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| When everything around me, even the kitchen ceiling
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| Has collapsed and crumbled without warning
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| And I am left, standing alive and well
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| Looking up and wondering why and wherefore
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| At a time like this, which exists maybe only for me
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| But is nonetheless real, if I can communicate
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| And in the telling and the bearing of my soul
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| Anything is gained, even though the words
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| Which I use are pretentious and make you cringe
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| With embarrassment, let me remind you of the pilgrim
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| Who asked for an audience with the Dalai Lama
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| He was told he must first spend five years in contemplation
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| After the five years
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| He was ushered into the Dalai Lama’s presence, who said
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| 'Well, my son, what do you wish to know?'
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| So the pilgrim said
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| 'I wish to know the meaning of life, father.'
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| So the Dalai Lama smiled and said
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| 'Well my son, life is like a beanstalk, isn’t it?'
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| Held close by that which some despise
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| Which some call fake, and others lies
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| And somewhat small, for one so tall
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| A doubting Thomas who would be?
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| It’s written plain for all to see
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| For one who I am with no more
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| It’s hard at times, it’s awful raw
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| They say that Jesus healed the sick and helped the poor
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| And those unsure believed his eyes
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| A strange disguise
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| Still, write it down it might be read
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| Nothing’s better left unsaid
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| Only sometimes, still no doubt
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| It’s hard to see, it all works out
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| 'Twas tea-time at the circus
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| King Jimi, he was there
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| Through hoops he skipped
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| High wires he tripped
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| And all the while the glare
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| Of the baking, aching spotlights
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| Beat down upon his cloak
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| And though the crowd clapped furiously
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| They could not see the joke
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| 'Twas tea-time at the circus
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| Though some might not agree
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| As jugglers danced and horses pranced
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| And clowns clowned endlessly
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| But trunk to tail the elephants quite silent, never spoke
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| And though the crowd clapped desperately
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| They could not see the joke
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| Yeah! |
| Good one!
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| In the autumn of my madness
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| When my hair is turning grey
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| For the milk has finally curdled
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| And I’ve nothing left to say
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| When all my thoughts are spoken
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| Save my last departing birds
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| Bring all my friends unto me
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| And I’ll strangle them with words
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| In the autumn of my madness
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| Which in coming won’t be long
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| For the nights are now much darker
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| And the daylight’s not so strong
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| And the things which I believed in
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| Are no longer quite enough
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| For the knowing is much harder
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| And the going’s getting rough
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| I know if I’d been wiser
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| This would never have occurred
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| But I wallowed in my blindness
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| So it’s plain that I deserve
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| For the sin of self-indulgence
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| When the truth was writ quite clear
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| I must spend my life amongst the dead
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| Who spend their lives in fear
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| Of a death that they’re not sure of
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| Of a life they can’t control
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| It’s all so simple really
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| If you just look to your soul, yeah
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| Some say that I’m a wise man
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| Some think that I’m a fool
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| It doesn’t matter either way
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| I’ll be a wise man’s fool
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| For the lesson lies in learning
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| And by teaching I’ll be taught
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| For there’s nothing hidden anywhere
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| It’s all there to be sought
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| And so if you know anything
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| Look closely at the time
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| At others who remain untrue
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| And don’t commit that crime, yeah
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| It’s all so simple really
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| If you just look to your soul, yeah
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| Instrumental |