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The path you tread is narrow |
|
And the drop is shear and very high |
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The ravens all are watching |
|
From a vantage point nearby |
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Apprehension creeping |
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Like a tube-train up your spine |
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Will the tightrope reach the end |
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Will the final couplet rhyme |
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And it's high time, Cymbaline |
|
It is high time, Cymbaline |
|
Please wake me |
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A butterfly with broken wings |
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Is falling by your side |
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The ravens all are closing in |
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There's nowhere you can hide |
|
Your manager and agent |
|
Are both busy on the phone |
|
Selling colored photographs |
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To magazines back home |
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And it's high time, Cymbaline |
|
It is high time, Cymbaline |
|
Please wake me |
|
The lines converging where you stand |
|
They must have moved the picture plane |
|
The leaves are heavy around your feet |
|
You hear the thunder of the train |
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And suddenly it strikes you |
|
That they're moving into range |
|
And Doctor Strange |
|
Is always changing size |
|
And it's high time, Cymbaline |
|
It is high time, Cymbaline |
|
Please wake me |
|
And it's high time, Cymbaline |
|
It is high time, Cymbaline |
|
Please wake me |