| She
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| Was a black whip of woman
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| Had a look that the silver of razors
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| And blazed with lips that were
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| Raised up to fearsome mouth
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| She was fearless
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| Crossing the hard road in her high thighed denim
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| And the bus drives and the shop keepers
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| Stared down from their canteens to
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| Watch her stroll past
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| In the deep white heat of midday
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| Like some emissary of the sun that
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| Couldn’t be touched
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| Or even whistled after
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| Just the glimpse of the could
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| Sting, cramp and paralyse
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| Make men say
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| Shiiiit
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| And cuss inside their own mouths
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| Dark seed of her skin
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| Like tamarind
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| She was the kind of woman that made time
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| Stand
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| Still
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| But no one saw her grooving in the ghettos of her life
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| No one saw her
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| Drying her clothes on a radiator overnight
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| No one saw her
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| Making rags into fashion or
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| Wiping tears her daughter’s eyes
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| ‘Your daddy loves you'
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| She says
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| He just can’t control his anger sometimes
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| No one saw her
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| Waking at 5 am
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| And leaving the high rise
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| To go to her cleaning job in the city
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| Or leaving on the bus stop
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| Long distance to her mother
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| No one saw the full spectrum of her mind
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| Her dreams, her education
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| The experiences that made her
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| Stroll like scissor cutting
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| Or the wit of her lips
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| That could leave marks in water
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| Everyone says she’s beautiful
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| And in the midday when the asphalt is summer soft
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| And the children are playing in the streets
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| She lets the dark seed
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| Of her glow
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| Like tamarind
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| (Merci à eDGe pour cettes paroles) |