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You know this will not help us.
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He shuts his eyes. Then he opens them again.
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He ain't in Phoenix anymore.
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He's sitting in the middle of a street
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in Saigon circa 1963
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in the orange robes of his Buddhist order,
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and he's drenched himself in gasoline.
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As he finally manages to push
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the thoughts of anger and hate out of his gentle mind,
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a fellow monk pleads with him one final time.
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Desist, brother.
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You know this will not help us.