| As a writer of songs should do They say that I never could touch the strings
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| With a touch that is firm and true
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| They say I know nothing of women and men
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| In the fields where love’s roses grow
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| I must write, they say, with a haunting pen
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| Do you think that I do not know?
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| My love burst came like an English spring
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| In the days when our hair was brown
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| And the hem of her shirt was a sacred thing
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| Her hair was an angel’s crown
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| The shock when another man touched her arm
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| Where the dancer sat in a row'
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| The hope and despair and the false alarm
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| Do you think that I do not know?
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| By the amber lights on the western farms
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| You remember the question you put
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| While you held her warm in your quavering arms
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| You trembled from head to foot
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| The electric shock from her fingertips
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| The murmuring answer low
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| The soft shy yielding of warm red lips
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| Do you think that I do not know?
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| She was buried at Brighton, where Gordon sleeps
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| When I was a world away
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| And the sad old garden its secret keeps
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| For nobody knows today.
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| She left a message for me to read
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| Where the wild, wide oceans flow
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| Do you know how the heart of a man can bleed?
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| Do you think that I do not know?
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| I stood by the grave where the dead girl lies
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| When the sunlit scene was fair
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| 'Neath the white clouds high in the autumn skies
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| I answered the message there
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| But the haunting words of the dead to me Shall go wherever I go She lives in the marriage that might have been
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| Do you think that I do not know?
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| Do you think that I do not know? |