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    I wonder if this blade ran through someone's side
    The blood wiped away to hide
    How evil you grandfather was 'fore he died
    But war can make monsters out of us all
    I'm sure I'd become one if I was called
    And then it would be my blade
    Here at this yardsale

    The guitar I am holding is way out of tune
    The neck it is warped and the saddle is through
    I wonder if sweet music ever was played
    From the hands of a boy to a girl in the shade
    From this rickety ghost of a song
    Here at this yardsale

    A dollar for anything here on this quilt
    A price tag for hands from which all things are built
    A blanket of voices speak pleasure in shame
    Flowers of plastic and fruit of the same
    A basket of nothing at all
    Here at this yardsale

    So if I had the money I'd buy everything
    And cover the whole lot with good gasoline
    And burn it for all that I care for the past
    And rid mother earth of what never should last
    And give her the present of ash
    Made of a yardsale

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