| I met a face with ring rounded pocket eyes
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| That shaped folded banks inside
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| As he shivered out thoughts
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| They went: «golden and pale, wind whispers, breathe New Orleans»
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| Through basements and racetracks met hollowed out from stretching mouths
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| All these thoughts were rolled onto needles
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| That spilled from heads, tumble like apples
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| Fell into the sky, that’s where they hide
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| Where rubies turned diamonds
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| Like textures, like sunshine
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| Behind hands arms lift into its own
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| Behind hands arms lift into its own
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| As the stadium sheds out the crowd into the streets
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| And out of their throats pours, tongues licking down
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| «What will we become?»
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| Rhythms fed gently in vacuums perspired
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| Will stay where it’s warm
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| Where it’s safe from the down beating drums
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| They went: «golden and pale, wind whispers, breathe New Orleans»
|
| Behind hands arms lift into its own
|
| Behind hands arms lift into its own
|
| As the stadium sheds out the crowd into the streets
|
| And out of their throats pours, tongues licking down
|
| «What will we become?»
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| As habits pull the sleep out
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| Covered in the sheets that harbor rest and sunshine
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| As habits pull the sleep out
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| Covered in the sheets that harbor rest and sunshine
|
| As the stadium sheds out the crowd into the streets
|
| And out of their throats pours, tongues licking down
|
| «What will we become?»
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| Into its own
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| Into its own
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| Into its own |