Eight miles highthe byrdseight miles high and when you touch downyou'll find that it's stranger than knownsigns in the street that say where you're goingare somewhere just being their own.nowhere is there warmth to be foundamong those afraid of losing their groundrain gray town known for its soundin places small faces unbound round the squares huddled in stormssome laughing some just shapeless formssidewalk scenes and black limousinessome living some standing alone

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