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We buried our kings beneath the snow,
and prayed for lasting winter.
The fir trees stood green their long long time.
Language changed beneath them,
'til the land thawed in revelation,
and the corpses rose
a-hollerin' for revenge.
They say he walked in sand
and built there the Paris of identity.
C'est toujour l'ete la,
but here the flesh is sad
and it's the book that's burning,
lighting up the bleached streets
and the dancing, gibbering blind.
- Jim Gislason