South of the river's mouth
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Migration slopes slowly towards mainland.
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There, the salt air
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Fills the gills of the dead bait in hand.
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The deep is in riot, the coastline is quiet
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Asleep and divided in bands.
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While beer halls all revil, drunk and disheveled,
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Helplessly wading the diver is down.
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And they're chumming the oceans.
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The signal is sent,
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Recieved and repsonded to.
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The water is red, red, red, red.
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We're downed, downed as the hand of God
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Chokes the driftwood with dead weight and brine.
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And spawning the detailed decline
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Via dorsal cuts, hooks, sink and line.
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The anchors have setlled, the tanks are full level.
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The flag has been raised half-mast on the bow.
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And harpoons are loaded, the cage has been lowered.
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The mask's on, the diver is down, now.
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And they're chumming the oceans.
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The signal is sent
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I think he's in trouble.
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The water is red, red, red, red.
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-----------------
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Chumming the Oceans
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Archers of Loaf |