| On a morning from a Bogart movie
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| In a country where they turn back time
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| You come strolling through the crowd like Peter Lorre
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| Contemplating a crime
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| She comes out of the sun in a silk dressing running
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| Like a watercolor in the rain
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| Don’t bother asking for explanations
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| She’ll just tell you that she came
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| In the Year of the Cat
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| She doesn’t give you time for questions
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| As she locks up your arm in hers
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| And you follow 'til your sense of which direction
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| Completely disappears
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| By the blue-tiled walls near the market stalls
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| There’s a hidden door she leads you to
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| «These days,» she says, «I feel my life just like a river running through
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| The Year of the Cat.»
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| Oh, she looks at you so cooly
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| And her eyes shine
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| Like the moon and the sea
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| She comes in incense and patchouli
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| So you take her
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| To find what’s waiting inside
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| The Year of the Cat
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| The morning comes and you’re still with her
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| And the bus and the tourists have gone
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| And you’ve thrown away your choice
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| And lost your ticket
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| So you’ll have to stay on
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| But the drumbeat strains of the night remain
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| In the rhythm of the newborn day
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| You know sometime you’re bound to leave her
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| But, for now you’re going to stay
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| In the Year of the Cat |