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Down beneath the swoosh of the turbines, the long grass blows in ripples |
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There's a beautiful spiral of roads that leads the lost up here |
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I was watching the birds taking off to swoop down over the city |
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They find and take just what they need and turn, turn, turn |
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The movers move, the shakers shake, the winners write their history |
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But from high on the high hills it all looks like nothing |
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The movers move, the shakers shake, the winners write their history |
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But from high on the high hills it all looks like nothing |
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That afternoon on Hustlergate with all the TVs flickering |
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While behind the sky was moving liquid crimson gold |
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Brothers, sisters, pay no heed to the unfaithful messengers |
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For theirs is a prison world of lies, lies, lies |
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Where the movers move, the shakers shake, the winners rewrite history |
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But from high on the high hills it all looks like nothing |
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The movers move, the shakers shake, the winners write their history |
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But from high on the high hills it all looks like nothing |
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The keening wind it blows through me, it blows through me |
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My time it must be almost done, be almost done |
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All these things you fear so much depend on angles of vision |
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From down in the maze of walls you can't see what's coming |
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But from high on the high hills it all looks like nothing |
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But from high on the high hills it all looks like nothing, nothing |