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For every man who will last |
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there's nothing he can't get past |
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no obstacle he cannot erase |
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for every king there's a crown |
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and every time I look around |
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I am the kin of infinite space |
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for every field there's a mole |
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with the soil that he stole |
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and the sightlessness that lets him go free |
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for every drought there's a rain |
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and when my earth's in pain |
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I watch it boil o tearfully |
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there's a time to sing these things |
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and a time to have them sung |
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a time to bring the tune |
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and a time to have it brung |
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there's a lap for resting head |
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there's the only nesting bed |
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there's the souls to cry among |
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for the things that don't get sung |
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and a hand to hold your throat |
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to stifle that crying choke |