slid right through the turnstile and off the loft we went
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we were taken in by strangers, and called about by coil and kin
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oh, concentrate on as far back as you can go
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when we would put a bullet in its belfry, to prove it's all a hoax
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so what we don't impress the fireworks with the strumming of our smiles
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but you can look up how high heaven is, and try to count the miles
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keeps you busy for a while
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says the cradle to the kick drum, that life begins again
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smoke butts like spent bullets, street sweeper's home to sleep again
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and when he put his arms around me, his hoodie smelled like gasoline
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so here's to all lost fragrances, to a future with some balance to a future without judgement, to a future with my family
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to a future without anger, to a fate of more than damaged fits, to a future worth remembering.
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Song For Annie's Harmonica
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Kind Of Like Spitting |