I’m your son, oh, and I don't hunt like I did once, Diana.
I fight hard times with a peace pipe by my side.
Oh, I don’t know you like I used to, Emmanuel.
I fight hard times by my bedside; it’s my hell.
Where is the coal that made our engines burn?
There’s fever on the mountainside.
Where is the coal that made our stoves burn hot?
There’s fever on the mountainside
from old Pandora’s mason jar,
from old Pandora’s mason jar.
Oh, I know what I’ve grown used to,
and it’s a heartache and a hard truth.
Long since but far too early,
and I’ve been hard spent in my yearning.
Oh, I slew my own youth;
I ran it straight through with a fig tree.
And I’ve borne such poor fruit
since from a whore’s womb, he bore me.
Where is the coal that made our engines burn?
There’s fever on the mountainside.
Where is the coal that made our stoves burn hot?
There’s fever on the mountainside
from old Pandora’s mason jar,
from old Pandora’s mason jar.
So often a man’s sins comes heavy-laden with revelation.
I’ve been such a good son, in the worst ways; I'm the worst one.
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