The end of the world blues
he sings it so well lord lord
waits for inevitable applause
audience pours out scatters
moths destined for the flight
how can we remember so much
these poems and these books
the children are raced out
there is still obvious music
a few hours before dawn
where the hell did we go to
I can barely move myself
where the hell did we go
I think I’m going home
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