The Truth
Kill it, kill it, kill that nasty fly
They cause garbage, that is why
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I'm just a lonely wanderer
On my way towards death
I love the clarity of air
Each time I take a breath
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Trouble
Sure my world was full of trouble
It's always been that way
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Wander Alone
We are sometimes called wanderers.
For across the world we roam.
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When I Die
When I die, is up to heaven where I'll go?
Or will I languish in the heat far, far, far below
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Wild Flowers
I wandered along my head in the clouds
Floating on high over hill and dale
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Yester Year
When I was young, say nine or ten
There were lots of things, we did back then
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Young Hood
Standing with hands in my pocket by Cranes luncheonette
Fumbling for the matches to light my remaining cigarette
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Pain and Tears
I know pain well, have had it for years.
I don't often talk of it, for it can bring tears
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