The man of a thousand faces
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Sits down at the table
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Eats a small lump of sugar
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And smiles at the moon like he knows her
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And begins his quiet ascension
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Without anyone's sturdy instruction
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To a place of no religion
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Has found a path to our alikeness
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His words are quiet like stains are
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On a table cloth washed in a river
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Stains that are trying to cover, for each other
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Or at least blend in with the pattern
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Good is better than perfect
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Scrub til your fingers are bleeding
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And I'm crying for things that I tell others to do without crying
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He used to go to his favorite bookstores
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And rip out his favorite pages
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And stuff them into his breast pocket
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And the moon to him was a stranger
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Now he sits down at the table
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Right next to the window
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And begins his quiet ascension
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Without anyone's sturdy instruction
|
To a place of no religion
|
Has found a path to our alikeness
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And eats a small lump of sugar
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And smiles at the moon like he knows her
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Man Of A Thousand Faces
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Regina Spektor |