| I saw a white lady standin' on the street just sobbin'
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| And I think about it once a week
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| It was two years ago
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| Christmas time, foot of snow
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| Passing through Union Square
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| And I saw this crying white lady just kinda standin' there
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| Funny, what if instead of getting on the subway with my entire class for our
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| field trip to look at bugs, I’d walked over
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| I approach, she’s demure
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| She thinks «Who is this four-foot bachelor?»
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| So my hand, I extend
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| And say, «I'm Alex J., and you look like you need a friend
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| Why are you crying in a public place?
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| Perhaps a friend of yours was fake to your face
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| Or did you just come from Trader Joe’s
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| And you paid too much for your avocados?»
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| No Kleenex in her purse
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| I’ve a handkerchief for her—of course
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| Monogrammed, «Alex J»
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| «Keep it, ma’am
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| Because you’re just havin' one of those days.»
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| I understand
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| She takes my hand
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| We walk uptown and dine at Au Bon Pain
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| I talk of «Sherlock Gnomes» from beginning to end
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| Then, suddenly, I say, «What's that sound I hear?
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| Your lovely laugh, my dear»
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| You’ve got problems and I don’t wanna delve
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| You’re a grown-up and I’m barely 12
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| Expel your problems, I can help you with coping
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| Look me in the eye, and the floodgates will open
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| They’re phasing out my department
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| And I will lose my apartment
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| My mom is no support system
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| I like bad guys, can’t resist them
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| Forgot to DVR Drag Race
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| My friend Alysse, fake to my face
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| Some fraud made them freeze my AmEx
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| And then, I ran into my ex
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| And some days, this city and de Blasio
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| Just make me scream «Why!?»
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| Why not just stand here and cry?
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| And also, this whole time, I’m wearing my dad’s fancy scarf and my Heelys!
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| Her eyes glisten
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| I don’t talk, I listen
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| Then the rain starts again
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| We scurry down the street into another Au Bon Pain
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| She takes my handkerchief from her purse
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| She says, «Alex J., I feel like I’m cursed.»
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| «Lady, I know that the sky isn’t clear
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| But it cannot rain every day of the year
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| You can’t just be crying in your own narrative
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| Because, 'We tell ourselves stories in order to live.»
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| She nods—"Joan Didion"
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| I take her hand to Le Pain Quotidien
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| And we talk about life and love and «Sherlock Gnomes»
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| Until it’s time to go home
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| That’s what I think would happen
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| But it’s all imagined
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| And I will wonder 'til the end
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| What if I hadn’t walked away?
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| Would that crying lady be my friend?
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| Anyway, I remember all sorts of things. |
| Thanks for listening. |
| And wherever you
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| are, lady, have a good night. |