| I woke up to greeting cards
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| From people I don’t know no more
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| I woke up to blue above
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| And blue below these wooden floors
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| This kind of thing, it can’t be told
|
| This kind of thing, it won’t be done
|
| I drove home on interstate
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| Wishing I had learnt to fly
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| She’s my Canadian girl
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| On the fifth day of July
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| This kind of thing, it can’t be told
|
| This kind of thing, it won’t be done
|
| When she said time and time again
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| I wouldn’t be alive
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| If it wasn’t for the summer of 1975
|
| And it’ll never be
|
| It’ll never be the same
|
| And everyone gets a moment when
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| It’ll never be the same again
|
| Someday I’ll write down
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| If it’s okay, I won’t change the names
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| I don’t know how the story ends
|
| But I know that it began this way
|
| And this kind of thing, it can’t be told
|
| This kind of thing, it won’t be done
|
| When she said time and time again
|
| I wouldn’t be alive
|
| If it wasn’t for the summer of 1975
|
| And it’ll never be
|
| It’ll never be the same
|
| And everyone gets a moment when
|
| It’ll never be the same again
|
| This kind of love, it can’t be told
|
| This kind of love, it won’t be done
|
| It’ll never be
|
| It’ll never be the same
|
| It’ll never be the same again
|
| It’ll never be
|
| It’ll never be the same
|
| And everyone gets a moment when
|
| It’ll never be the same again
|
| When she said time and time again
|
| I wouldn’t be alive
|
| If it wasn’t for the summer of 1975 |