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Never in the night |
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When the knot grows tighter |
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than fingers can untie, |
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and all the last half-damned |
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rivers have gone dry |
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does the cock crow thrice |
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until someone is denied... |
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or the morning comes. |
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And you wonder, will you |
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get your shit together? |
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And what is that? |
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A leather sofa and a feather in an old fur hat? |
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A fake tat' lost in a |
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box of cracker jacks? |
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Practicing your plane wreck |
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face in the first-class lav'? |
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That's what the ghost of someone's dad might say. |
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And when they come calling |
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I won't go calm. |
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There is no palm or divine mitt |
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with which to hold one's pit, |
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or separate the human race |
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from its environment. |
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No scattered ashes loosely gather |
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asking where the fire went. No. |
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We're left with half-true psalms |
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in an indecipherable scrawl, |
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in some vague extinct language, |
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ancient ink dull, almost vanished |
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on some old brittle scroll. |
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That's what the ghost of |
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someone's dad might say. |