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Back home I was working
Though it seemed I was staring at stone
Did you know what I was making
Creating where the red light shone?
I was writing down a question
One that's pursued me relentlessly throughout the storm
Yes it's so cold now
But you know I'm gonna make it warm
Whatever I created, fifty-something men died to make real
Some died with their courage
Some died with that question on their heels
I hear it whispered softly
That question that would turn them black and blue
What kind of mortal man would give a damn
About the fifty-two?
Would give a damn about the fifty
Out here I've been making
Reasons that become excuses when held in the light
Yes it's all wrong now
But you know I'm gonna make it right
But when I think about that question
I know there's nothing I can do
What immortal man would give a damn
About the fifty-two?
Would give a damn about the fifty-two?