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We've left our homes, |
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for the dusty road, |
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though it weighed us down, |
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to go. |
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Now, see, we're burning in the sun, |
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fire in our bellies. |
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Today ate us up, |
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and never chewed. |
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Though we still roll along this hill. |
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The change that we don't see, |
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is happening to me |
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though you are watching. |
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It is cold, it is dark, |
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in the big black heart, |
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of the wood, of the hill, |
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of the home. |
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We are out of our depth |
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and our width and breadth. |
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We are out of the pan, |
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in the fire. |
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It is green, it is damp, |
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by the burning lamp, |
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of the woods, of the hills, |
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of the home. |
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Oh, how I long, for the things I have, |
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for the burden I don't own. |
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Do I know, how to please your head |
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pour the contents back, when you're spilling from my bed. |
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the day is worn, and the spark won't come |
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New sore in my chest. |
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It is cold, it is dark, |
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in the big black heart, |
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of the wood, of the hill, |
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of the home. |
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We are out of our depth |
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and our width and breadth. |
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We are out of the pan, |
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in the fire. |
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Oh you, the husband of the wife, |
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I know you are watching. |
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Oh you, the husband of the wife, |
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I know you are watching. |