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It seems that we are clams inside our shells |
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Side by side on rocks we feel the tide as the sea contracts and swells |
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Pearls grow from the pain inside we often know so well |
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So languageless, emotionless we must now find |
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Some way to tell the ocean not to worry |
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Ultimately all, predictably, is well |
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Oh fisherman, it seems you've lost your net |
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Furthermore, it seems you're sinking, do not waste time with regret |
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Most of the world is covered in that stuff which constitutes your sweat |
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With which your body's, for a long time now, been marginally wet |
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I would tell you but I'm not so good with words |
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Language makes a simple feeling seem oh so absurd |
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Anyway, my songs about contentment so far always end in verbs |
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Like "drive", or "run", or go to sleep, the damage has been done |
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Life's not made up of things that must be lost or won |
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But you can live that way if that's what you call fun |
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Oh karma chameleon |
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Are you in tune to the voice that makes that noise saying your work here is done? |
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And do you dream at night of thoughts inside you'll never tell no one |
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Unless you find some way to mask them in some sarcastic pun? |
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And oh, misguided secret angel on the run |
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What was so wrong with taking your wings off, a day of working done |
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In your dreams of hell, do you have endless chores or are you banished to boredom? |
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Now you can't decide if you believe in either one |
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You can't decide if you believe in either one |
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You'll not know until you've tried, and so you can't decide |
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You can't decide if you believe in either one |