| Laura, are you still living there
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| On your estate of sorrows?
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| You used to leave it occasionally
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| But now you don’t even bother
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| To ride that commuter train, west to Chicago
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| To stroll through the greenery in the park past the statues
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| How their eyes seemed to follow you like a hated addiction
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| Their beauty carved out of absolutes that you could never claim
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| Or even envision
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| Laura, you were the saddest song
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| In the shape of a woman
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| Yeah, I thought you were beautiful
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| But I wept with your movements
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| But I hope that you’re laughing now from that place on the carpet
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| Where we shared a sleeping bag in your sister’s apartment
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| Oh, how she would worry so
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| You know, I was just a stranger
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| But she asked me to care for you, yes she did
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| And I went and betrayed her
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| But do you know we’re in high demand, Laura, us people who suffer
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| Because we don’t take to arguing
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| And we’re quick to surrender
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| Well, I think I would call tonight if I still had your number
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| Your thoughts have always lain close to mine
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| Yeah, we were both skipping supper
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| But you should never be embarrassed by your trouble with living
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| Because it’s the ones with the sorest throats, Laura
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| Who have done the most singing
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| Everybody
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| Lalalala
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| Lalalalalala
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| Lalalalalala
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| Lalalalala
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| Lalalala |