| Four thousand four hundred days and we’re still swimming deeper
|
| Two nameless decades, now our memories go into the aether
|
| We get so lost sometimes
|
| Filling holes that don’t need fixing
|
| And tide is rushing under foot, we’re walking heavy
|
| Poor hunter named Stanley and his youngest daughter Rita
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| Ran all the way into Chicago, got lost in the winter
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| They’d get so cold sometimes
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| Crossing train tracks, lifting rations
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| At night under a sea and bridge he’d sit and tell her
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| How some people don’t change
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| I think they’re strange
|
| So do you
|
| Out of their range
|
| I feel the rage
|
| Coming soon
|
| Dancing, dancing on the edge of our graves
|
| Dancing on the edge of our
|
| Dancing, dancing on the edge of our graves
|
| Dancing on the edge of our
|
| We’re dancing on the edge of our graves
|
| Four thousand four hundred days and we’re still swimming deeper
|
| Two nameless decades, now our memories go into the aether
|
| We get so lost sometimes
|
| Filling holes that don’t need fixing
|
| And hiding footprints in the snow, we’re walking heavy
|
| Now some people are strange
|
| I hope they change
|
| So do you
|
| Out of their range
|
| I feel the ash coming to consume
|
| Dancing, dancing on the edge of our graves
|
| Dancing on the edge of our
|
| Dancing, dancing on the edge of our graves
|
| Dancing on the edge of our
|
| We’re dancing on the edge of our graves
|
| Dancing, dancing on the edge of our graves
|
| Dancing on the edge of our
|
| Dancing, dancing on the edge of our graves
|
| Dancing on the edge of our |