Letters in pencil, some of them as heavy as lead,
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as dated as carbon, as black as coal,
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but burning as red.
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Clues faintly stencilled: the message,
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though leeched, is unbled,
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as secret as marble - as young, as old,
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as living, as dead.
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And always that laugh
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that comes as though it's from pain:
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though I'm lashed to the mast
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still it hammers round my brain.
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Laughter in the backbone,
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laughter impossibly wise,
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that same laughter that comes
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every time I flash on that look in your eyes
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which whispers of a black zone
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which'll mock all my credos as lies,
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where all logic is done
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and time will smash every theory I devise.
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And the hour-glass is shattered
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only by the magic of your touch
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where nothing really matter....
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No, Nothing matters very much!
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So the siren song runs through the ages,
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and it courses through my veins like champagne;
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and with all the sweet kisses of addiction
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it's calling me to break my bonds again.
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Future memory exploding like shrapnel,
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some splinters escape on my tongue,
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some of them scar comprehension...
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beneath the scab they burn,
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but the wound becomes numbs.
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And always the song draws me forward,
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rejoicing in the search and the prayer,
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bored with all but the mad,
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the strange, the freak, the impossible dare.
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Still your laugh chills my marrow
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till I embrace it on my knees....
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Oh, when the mast becomes a flagpole,
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what becomes of me?
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What becomes, oh, what becomes of me?
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The Siren Song
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Van Der Graaf Generator |