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Behind all the rusting cranes, in the lengthening shadows of the Empire days |
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there's a world that waits, but it's not needed. |
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In the teeming rows behind the goal - yelling for blood on the pitch below; |
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where does all the passion go when it's not needed? |
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Over the wire, and into the darkness . . . |
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Come evangelists of the Grand New Age proclaiming the future that they stole, |
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condemning the things they can't control - just like the priests before; |
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and now I can hear them call - the ghosts of the 1914-18 war |
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Where do all the innocents go when they're not needed? |
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Over the wire and into the darkness . . . |
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And the dawn it will come like blood across the sky, |
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Not the way that you think, not the way that you dream |
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In the silence of God, in the fullness of time, |
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like blood across the sky - the dawn it will come - the dawn it will come. |
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All still, like the pitshafts and the two-mile-down where they buried their hearts; |
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where does all the loyalty go when it's not needed? |
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In the plastic seats behind the goal yelling for blood on the pitch below; |
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where does all the passion go when it's not needed? |
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Over the wire and into the darkness . . . |