| Not by my own hand
|
| Automatic writing by phantom limb
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| Not with my own voice
|
| Pleurisy made to stand on two legs
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| That’s how I bar my door
|
| In this age of blasting trumpets
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| Paradise for fools
|
| Infinite wrath
|
| In the lowest deep a lower depth
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| I don’t want to hear those vile trumpets anymore
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| Conscience wakes despair
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| The night is an accumulation of dark air
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| The scholar will be forever poor
|
| Gross gold runs headlong to boor
|
| I don’t want to hear those vile trumpets anymore
|
| Call me «Heraclitus The Obscure»
|
| Constantly weeping because the river doesn’t move
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| It doesn’t flow
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| It’s been leaded by snider men to make a profit from the poor
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| I don’t want to hear those vile trumpets anymore
|
| People live with a private understanding
|
| Sorrow’s the wind blowing through
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| Truth is hiding in the wire
|
| Elvis outside of Flagstaff
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| Driving a camper van
|
| Looking for meaning in a cloud mass
|
| Sees the face of Joseph Stalin
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| And is disheartened
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| Then the wind changed the cloud into his smiling Lord
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| And he was affected profoundly
|
| But he could never describe the feeling
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| He passed away on the bathroom floor
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| She’s just trying to reach you
|
| She’s just trying to reach you
|
| She’s just trying to reach you
|
| She’s just trying to reach you
|
| She’s just trying to reach you
|
| She’s just trying to reach you
|
| She’s just trying to reach you
|
| She’s just trying to reach you
|
| She’s just trying to reach you
|
| She’s just trying to reach you
|
| She’s just trying to reach you
|
| She’s just trying to reach you
|
| She’s just trying to reach you
|
| She’s just trying to reach you
|
| She’s just trying to reach you
|
| She’s just trying to reach you
|
| She’s just trying to reach you
|
| She’s just trying to reach you
|
| She’s just trying to reach you |