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Meet me on the edges of this city, meet me where the underground runs out. |
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Bring a picnic blanket and your pity, a pen and paper, so |
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I can write things down. |
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Mother, oh dear mother, |
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I wasn't joking when |
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I said that |
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I plan to keep doing this until the day |
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I'm dead. |
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And I'm not a mirror for you when you were young, but |
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I still remain your faithful only son. |
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Lately I've been feeling kind of fragile, lately |
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I've been feeling all worn out. |
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What would any of us do if all the dreams we had came true? |
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What would there be left to dream about? |
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Father, oh dear father, |
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I'm not trying to reject the values that you held like winning cards up to your chest. |
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And I can't just do the things you wished you'd done, but |
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I still remain your faithful only son. |
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The city seems so still, looking down from |
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Highgate Hill. |
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There's nothing left for us to say: you taught me everything |
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I know. You wouldn't miss me if |
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I stay, you'd never see me if |
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I go. This is no confession now, this is who |
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I am. You made me in your image so you have to understand that |
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I did my best as told and so have become your loving and your faithful only son. |