| Don’t tell me I belong
|
| I don’t care where the keys are
|
| Don’t tell me that you long
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| To brush my hair where the bees are
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| You’ll never see the darkest night
|
| Or the colour of the Negro
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| The beauty’s in the innocence below
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| Your adolescent charms
|
| Free my soul, feed my ego
|
| As you navigate the calm
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| Sand and storm, that goes where we go
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| The legacy of old wives' tales
|
| Diminishes reality
|
| Of minor parts played out on bended knee
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| No preachers, no religious key
|
| No bleeding hearts, no refugee,
|
| No hope
|
| Don’t tell me of regrets
|
| All in all no concession
|
| No one can read our heads
|
| No one can hear our confession
|
| We celebrate in plastic shows
|
| And the seventies are throwaway
|
| In minor keys and drugs that steal the day
|
| No preachers, no religious key
|
| No bleeding hearts, no refugee,
|
| No hope
|
| You think that you perform
|
| But you perform like a stray dog
|
| You shelter from the storm
|
| By counting time like a meat hog
|
| It’s hard to see the darkest night
|
| Or the colour of the Negro
|
| I wanna see the light before I go
|
| No preachers, no religious key
|
| No bleeding hearts, no refugee,
|
| No hope |