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Young Guns - Stitches |
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Every hour is a season |
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Every season* is a day |
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So I sit here picking stitches |
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'cos I find comfort in decay |
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How I long to fill my lungs |
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Tell me how does it feel to |
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Breathe air cold and clean |
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Cos I've been living on my knees |
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Since I was seventeen |
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Thought I was safe beneath the smoke |
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But even under cover I still choke |
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My wings are clipped but even if they weren't |
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I've not the guts to fly and leave behind the Earth |
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There's no poetry in my soul |
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Just a list of lies I've told |
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And I don't know how much longer I can hold on. |