On a strange and distant hill
A young man's lying very stillHis arms will never hold his childBecause a bullet running wildHas cut him down
And now we cry, Dear GodOh, why, oh, whyBut who will answer
High upon a lonely ledgeA figure teeters near the edgeAnd jeering crowds collect belowTo egg him on with, go, man, goBut who will ask what led himTo his private day of doomAnd who will answer
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