(Ian Hunter)
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His feet lay heavy on the road that led to Birmingham
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Unseeing eyes, defeated cries, the mysteries of men.
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Many hears, the helpless tears that leave the troubled brow
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A man once tall, he fought them, but he is older now.
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For in your youth, you think the truth will always win the game
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Some men are Kings, some men are rook, some men are pawns to blame
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But if your skin is coloured black, well the dice are hidden in
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The minds of fools who twist the rules, so you can never win
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Birmingham, Birmingham, underneath your face
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There's nothing but a space - you're hollow.
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Unlighted sky, begins to cry, the shabby coat is weak
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And homes with windows dressed in warmth, and mouths that never speak
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His mind is dead, his visions spread that pass before his feet
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And thankfully he wears that dream that shields him from the street
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Goodnight my friend, this is the end, you'll never cry again
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You'll never have to smile away the bastards and the pain
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Is it too late, or can you wait to take another turn
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And walk together down that road that leads to Birmingham
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Birmingham, Birmingham, underneath your face
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There's nothing but a space - inside you.
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Birmingham, Birmingham, underneath your face
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There's nothing but a space - you're hollow.
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Road To Birmingham
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Mott the Hoople |