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VersionsEdit

Barry Keating and Ellen Parks in the musical The Dream Engine

LyricsEdit

Come home, child!
Take a look at your pages all shining
Come home, child!
Take whiff of your sweet scented gas
Come home, child!
But don't let the pigs catch you crying
Come home, child!
Where your flowers get shoved up your ass!

Nightsticks smashing on innocent heads, now
A broken skull, but the brain escapes and flies away free
Phantom policemen counting up all their dead, now
Maybe four, maybe more, extra corpses
People living just like slabs in a ruin
Greasy women linked to tired old men, and
Not a trace can be seen of the land, now
Nails are piercing every orphan's hand, now
The city feels like a cold cancer tomb
We live and die in an open wound

Hunchback writhing on an oily street, now
He's dying slow, he's dying fast, but he's finally dying!
Tourists crowd around and they (unintelligible)
They're hurling stone, they're hurling spit and they're spitting curses
All the people just don't feel the pain, now
All the children waiting for the rain, now
Skies are covered with a nauseous stain, now
Anywhere you look you know it's all the same, and
The city feels like a cold cancer tomb
We live and die in an open wound

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