God is love and love is real,
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but the dead are dancing with the dead.
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And whatever's charming disappears,
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while all things lovely only hurt my head.
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As I gather stones from fields like pearls of water on my fingers ends
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and I carefully wrap them up in boxes,
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safe from windows, from things that break.
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As the night-time shined like day it saw my sorry face,
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and hair a mess but it liked me best that way
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(Besides, how else could I confess?
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When I looked down like if to pray,
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well I was looking down her dress...)
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Good God, please!
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Catch for us the foxes, in the vineyard - The little foxes.
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So turn your ears, you musicians, to silence because they only come out when it's quiet.
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Their tails brushing over your eyelids.
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Oh wake up, sleeper, and rise from the dead!
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Or the fur that they shed will cover your bed in a delicate orange-ish cinnamon red,
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ah, I don't need this!
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I have my loves, I have my doubts.
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I don't need this.
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-----------------
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The Soviet
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Mewithoutyou (Me Without You) |