| They’re taking pictures of the man from God
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| I hope his cassock’s clean
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| The burden of being a holy fella’s
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| Your halo’d better gleam, better gleam
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| What of all those wayward priests?
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| The ones who like to drink
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| Do you suppose they’d swap their blood for wine
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| Like you swapped yours for ink, for ink
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| You wrote me oh-so-many letters
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| And all of them seemed true
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| Promises look good on paper
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| Especially from you, from you
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| The weight of all those willing words
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| I carried all alone
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| You wouldn’t put your pen to bed
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| When we hadn’t found our own, our own
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| Your sentences rose high at night
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| And circled round my head
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| The circle’s since been broken
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| Like the priest before me is breaking bread
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| I’m being asked to drink the blood of Christ
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| And soon I’ll eat his flesh
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| I’m alone again before the altar
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| Shedding all my old regrets
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| The last of which I’ll tell you now
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| As it flies down the sink
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| I never knew a part of you
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| You didn’t set in ink, in ink
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| The letters that you left behind
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| No longer shall I read
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| Your blood’s between the pages
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| And I can’t stand to see you bleed
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| And I’ll soon forget what was never there
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| Your words are ash and dust
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| All that’s left is the song I’ve sung
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| The breath I’ve taken and the one I must
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| If you’re born with a love for the wrote and the writ
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| People of letters, your warning stands clear:
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| Pay heed to your heart and not to your wit
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| Don’t say in a letter what you can’t in my ear |