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O the Roman ambassador |
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Was torn apart-apart by plaster |
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And reassembled after: |
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The 40 years of bombing: |
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They were wild and they were crying, in the picture |
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Where the smoke cleared |
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Tear your body from your beard |
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And watch as the planes burn the boats from the isle |
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A board is a board |
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When the pulpit meets the sword |
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And the poet has been bored |
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He's seen Fire and he's seen Pain |
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And the tedium has stained, |
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O Vergil, get your rake out there's a pastor to be pulled |
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And 60 miles west of Rome: "I stopped some dreadful hoard." |
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And I, I will let my body go, |
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And when it goes and then it stinks |
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There will be beauty in its stink |
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And the last rays of the fink |
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Will suppose themselves to shine |
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Upon the corpse of Stinking Gold |
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That has fallen into brine, |
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Idle song. |