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And it's been forty days |
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I've tried forty ways |
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You will never quite leave your sins behind |
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They'll haunt you, taunt you until the day you die |
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You will never really go. |
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You think about it much but you need to know how the story ends, so you sit around, even though you should just go |
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Tell your friends what you have heard, show them all the lies unlearned |
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And when you really go, you will really know you were never meant for mirth |
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What's it worth? |
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If we're going to break it down with any logic, it's absurd |
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And no matter where we go, we are not alone |
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When the silence turns to cries of "Why?" |
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What a way to begin: we inherit sin |
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And nobody's going to quench your thirst when the well runs dry, the well runs dry |
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And nobody's going to hold your hand on the day you die |
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I've tasted seven sins, so they won't let me in |
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I knock knock knock until my knuckles are bruised and raw |
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Stuck in the middle with my blood in a puddle on the floor |
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We made our beds, we'll judge ourselves |
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And only then and there will we disappear to our final resting place |
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What a waste! |
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So many decent people at the gates |
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And no matter where we go, we are not alone |
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When the silence turns to cries of "Why?" |
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What a way to begin: we inherit sin |
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And nobody's going to quench your thirst when the well runs dry, the well runs dry |
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And nobody's going to hold your hand on the day you die |
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And no matter who you know, you will be alone |
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When the silence turns to cries of "Why?" |
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What a way to begin: we inherit sin |
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And nobody's going to quench your thirst when the well runs dry, the well runs dry |
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And nobody's going to hold your hand on the day you die |