| Pray betray the deceased,
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| such an infamous freedom, such a militant peace.
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| How dare they distrust, do they know who we are?
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| And Your progeny’s brave,
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| their tract houses waiting, pre-plucked and pre-paved:
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| To the ends of the Earth, wife, kids and a car.
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| But oh no, no, I see them falling.
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| Let’s all pray for rain, Let’s all pray for rain.
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| And all your children are reared by panic and fear.
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| But what when all your fields are rotten,
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| your waves of grain, amber waves of grain?
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| And your word is yet done: Inbreed us 'till we’re all the same.
|
| And Your collection of tongues,
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| you keep framed in your parlour, with your bibles and guns,
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| the fetus of Christ with a fistful of scars.
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| And your vision is clear,
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| while you blind your own kind in a curtain of fear,
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| your words twisted skywards distracted by stars.
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| But oh, no, no, the sky is falling.
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| Let’s all pray for rain, Let’s all pray for rain.
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| And you pour out your prayers and weep 'cuase you care.
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| But what when all your fields are rotten,
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| your waves of grain, amber waves of grain?
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| And you hide the dead while my friends head to die in your name.
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| And This playground is yours
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| spoke God when you met, behind closed doors.
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| Gesture your hand and the pawns shall subside
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| And though you play alone,
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| you never get lonely, you never get bored.
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| Who needs a friend when God’s on your side?
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| But oh, no, no, I see them falling.
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| Let’s all pray for rain, Let’s all pray for rain.
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| And even I can’t pretend we’re not near the end.
|
| But what when all your fields are rotten,
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| your waves of grain, amber waves of grain?
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| When your days are done, I hope you’ve had fun with your game.
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| And you accepted as fact:
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| Behold a white horse, with you on it’s back,
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| a bow in your hand, a crown through your hair.
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| And the oceans shall rise
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| and slap on the shores of mountainsides.
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| Great waves of progress shall wet the air.
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| But oh, no, no, the sky is falling.
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| Let’s all pray for rain, Let’s all pray for rain.
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| And you fools in the back with your heads in your hats,
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| What when all your fields are rotten,
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| your waves of grain, amber waves of grain?
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| And my words won’t be done, they’ll never be done 'till the end. |