From dust things sprang before, but nothing seems to grow here anymore.
|
Just patient little children waiting for what came before
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She'd angled the barrel into her chin
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The last of the face cream still smeared on her skin
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And the gun in the puddle of blood is no fun
|
'Cause it's all an illusion, here's a lens
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Here's the scene
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Then go over and over the war still unwon
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Here's a camera, take it, make the world clean!
|
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So Burn all the photographs
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I'll not own anyone
|
I'll throw the hand grenade
|
If you shoot the gun
|
It's what everyone wanted
|
In the long run
|
BURN BURN BURN
|
|
From things dust sprang before but nothing seems to die here anymore
|
Just dying scrabbling old men waiting at the nursery door
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He'd practiced his speeches, his gestures, his ease
|
Pictured rehearsing spontaneity
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And the gun in the puddle of blood is no fun,
|
'Cause it's all an ambition to take a thing home
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And the cold in his eye's untouched by anyone
|
But caught by the camera and raised up in stone.
|
|
So Burn all the photographs
|
I'll not own anyone
|
I'll throw the hand grenade
|
If you shoot the gun
|
It's what everyone wanted
|
In the long run
|
BURN BURN BURN
|
|
Burn all the photographs
|
Destroy the negatives
|
I'll wipe the hard drive
|
If you spill the fixatives
|
Burn down the darkroom
|
Tear all the prints
|
BURN BURN BURN
|
BURN BURN BURN
|
BURN BURN BURN BURN BURN
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-----------------
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Burn All The Photographs
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The Indelicates |