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The fire is already out |
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When the rain comes |
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The nucleus of stress |
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Chooses dust in the end |
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Like aerosol evils |
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In a rush towards the sun |
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It's an oasis inside out |
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And fire is the trend |
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An oasis inside out |
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And fire, fire is the trend |
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Now what's left on your plate |
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As you sterilize the tine? |
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Have lessons on earth |
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Left you the will of a boy? |
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Are you just passing time |
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Or do you taste the wine? |
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What's left for us this spring |
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Besides grass-stained corduroy? |
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What's left for us this spring |
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Besides scratched-out corduroy? |
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Well, like it or not |
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The locusts come from spring |
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And all your plans are shot |
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And that stock's not worth a thing |
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Like it or not |
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The neighbours yell when we sing |
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Together |
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Like it or not |
|
The locusts come from spring |
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And all your plans are shot |
|
And that stock's not worth a thing |
|
Like it or not |
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The neighbours yell when we sing |
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Now, I like pissing you, pissing you off |
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To get some kind of rise, I don't mind to suffer the sting of the cold from your eye |
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But suddenly I see that I can see when you're blind |
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To the weather, the spring, and the simplest things that bring us together |