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High On The Hill

The sun’s going down,
And all the crowds around,
We keep trying to burn,
The bush that Moses found,
 
Oh can you stay,
Just one more moment,
To hear one more sound,
 
The pounding of the plates,
Across the Eastern Gates,
Only play fiddle to,
The wasted men whom upon late,
Find themselves in the streets,
With nothing to their names,
 
The thunder crashing in the sky,
Hides the peasants through the night,
Under mosaics of shattered crimes,
That can only bring to mind,
The Golden Flute flower find,
The Good Samaritan cannot bind,
To the lonely lady,
Searching for love,
In the night...
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