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Oh: listening to Sunday Shoals, |
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Weed up from the water, |
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Missionaries fiddle while they baptize the horizon |
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Chaos if they falter. |
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Oh, Donna was offended by the cartographic vessels |
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That mirrored the pain of her daughter |
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Oh, Holly was dead from the cartographic lead |
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That poisoned the veins of her daughter, |
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And the patriarch will send his children to the fens, |
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And the stinking swamplands will surrender. |
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Patience in her Sunday clothes, |
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We ate the witch's hat, |
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We ate the witch's pills, |
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And offerings and the offerings and the semblance of the offerings. |
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Paid for with a baseball bat, paid for with a baseball bat, |
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Paid for with a baseball bat, |
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Reaction: when they come. And when they come, and when they go. |
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Reaction when they come, they will violate their sun, |
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And tear apart their daughters and make witches of their sons, |
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You ain't nothing at all! |
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I'm never going to be a-waiting for that man. |