Cast out with the first of winter.
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Coldest night since they last raised busfare.
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Seems fitting.
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In this city it only ever gets this cold
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after shelters close and the commons gates are locked.
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There but for the grace of good odds go you, go I, go we all, but we don't.
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A greater chill than the lake winds at morning:
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knowing you've been heard but the city's still ignoring.
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They built this.
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The city would not entertain appeals to logic.
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Simply locked out, they assembled, built their own walls.
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Dignity here lives by alms not asked for.
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But how long could it possibly last?
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Now that the Pope's here gotta get the streets clear.
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What better time for good old Christian charity?
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Tempered by the winter weather, cold hearts don't care what month it is.
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It's all the same, they've themselves to blame.
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And we'll never be measured, no matter the weather,
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on how we lived well while others froze.
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A systematic disease, motivated by greed,
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left alone when we all know there's room.
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Break down City Hall, there's rooms for us all,
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there's no problem till they hear it upstairs.
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But what does that mean for the greatest in need?
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Must they fight at every corner?
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Even when they succeed in making all that they need,
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"dead" property discovers its owner.
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I can feel my bones getting cold already.
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Steaming breath betrays our presence.
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Measured in the way we care for our weakest,
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God forbid we should ever lose our hold.
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Could we ever lose our hold?
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We've walked these streets till morning.
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Winds cut through without warning.
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We're strong as our greatest shame.
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Speak its name, leads its way, this way home.
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-----------------
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Bury My Eyes At 1510 King St. W.
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Bombs Over Providence |