The wave hits the beach,
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writing words on the sand -
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to the academic man,
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this could be the answer....
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In fact, it's no more than a hunch;
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still we try to eat it...
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I think we're all pretty out to lunch.
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The wave is out of reach,
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trailing words from the hand
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only air can understand;
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semaphore on the shoreline,
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waiting for distance to recede,
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unhappily imperfect
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when we should be happy just to breathe.
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But with each bated breath,
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so present, tense,
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we want to know, we want it sure,
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it don't make sense!
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So I'll do mine and you do yours
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but let's not trade sand and sea
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for brick and cement.
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The wave hits the beach,
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laps around abandoned clothes,
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wants to share a joke with those
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who'll brave the breakers,
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who'll break bread rather than pray
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while the definition-maker's
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lost in the small print of the day.
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The words are only pictures
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that the next wave wipes away.
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The Wave
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Van Der Graaf Generator |