| When I was just a kid
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| everything I did, was to be like him
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| under my skin
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| My father always thought,
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| if I was strong and fought
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| not like some albatross, I’d begin
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| to fit in
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| Look at me powerless and holding my breath
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| trying hard to repress what scared him to death
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| It was never easy to be his type of man
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| to breathe freely was not in his plan
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| and the best part of me
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| is what he wouldn’t see
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| I’m not my fathers son
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| I’m not the image of what he dreamed of
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| With the strength of Sparta and the patience of Job,
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| still couldn’t be the one
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| to echo what he’d done
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| and mirror what was not in me
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| So I jumped in my dreams and found an escape
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| maybe I went to extremes of leather and lace,
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| but the world seems brighter six inches off the ground
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| and the air seemed lighter
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| I was profound and I felt so proud
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| just to live out loud
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| I’m not my fathers son
|
| I’m not the image of what he dreamed of
|
| With the strength of Sparta and the patience of Job,
|
| still couldn’t be the one
|
| to echo what he’d done
|
| and mirror what was not in me
|
| The endless story of expectations swirling inside my mind
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| wore me down
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| I came to a realization and I finally turned around
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| to see
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| that I could just be me
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| (Charlie)
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| I’m not my fathers son
|
| I’m not the image of what he dreamed of
|
| (Lola)
|
| With the strength of Sparta and the patience of Job,
|
| (Charlie/Lola)
|
| still couldn’t be the one
|
| to echo what he’d done
|
| and mirror what was not in me
|
| (Lola)
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| We’re the same, Charlie boy,
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| you and me. |