| Arlington house, address: no fixed abode
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| An old man in a three-piece suit sits in the road
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| He stares across the water, he sees right through the lock
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| But on and up like outstretched hands
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| His mumbled words, his fumbled words, mock
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| Further down, a photo booth, a million plastic bags
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| And an old woman filling out a million baggage tags
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| But when she gets thrown out, three bags at a time
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| She spies the old chap in the road to share her bags with
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| She has bags of time
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| Surrounded by his past, on a short white line
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| He sits while cars pass either side, takes his time
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| Trying to remember one better day
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| A while ago when people stopped to hear him say
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| Walking round you sometimes hear the sunshine
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| Beating down in time with the rhythm of your shoes
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| Now she has walked enough through rainy town
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| She rests her bag against his and sits down
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| She’s trying to remember one better day
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| A while ago when people stopped to hear her say
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| Walking round you sometimes hear the sunshine
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| Beating down in time with the rhythm of your shoes
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| Walking round you sometimes hear the sunshine
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| Beating down in time with the rhythm of your shoes
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| The feeling of arriving when you’ve nothing left to lose
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| Walking round you sometimes hear the sunshine
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| Beating down in time with the rhythm of your shoes
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| The feeling of arriving when you’ve nothing left to lose |