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A man walks in his neighbours house says what can I do? |
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My fathers' cousins' wife says I must kill you |
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There is a debt of honour and it must be paid by you |
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Though how it came to happen I can't tell you |
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Can we ever find out who's to blame |
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Can we ever solve our conscience with our shame |
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Can we ever put things right |
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A soldier guards a road block with a rifle in his hand |
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He doesn't smile at children passing by him |
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He couldn't give a damn about this god-forsaken land |
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Where folks would rather hate then understand |
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Can we ever find out who's to blame |
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Can we ever solve our conscience with our shame |
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Can we ever put things right |
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Ooh though the seasons come and go |
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Still the sickness seems to grow in the mind |
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Ooh though the players names may change |
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The simple questions still remains |
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Who's to blame? Who's to blame? |
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The journo closed his notebook with a sorry heavy sigh |
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He can't afford to be seen to be taking sides |
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Tonight he'll drink another beer and argue 'til he's blind |
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And hope that better minds than his decide |
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Can we ever find out who's to blame |
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Can we ever solve our conscience with our shame |
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Can we ever put things right |
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Ooh though the seasons come and go |
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Still the sickness seems to grow in the mind |
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Ooh though the players names may change |
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The simple questions still remains |
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Who's to blame? Who's to blame? |