| I was spending my days with my demons, yeah
|
| They had taken up inside of my heart
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| They were trying to keep me entertained
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| They were tearing me apart
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| Well my memory, she was packing, yeah
|
| And I knew that she would never come back
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| She handed me a letter and
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| Then she vanished in the black
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| And the letter said:
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| Things are what you make of them
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| Things are what you make of them, baby
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| And you know what I mean
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| Yeah, you know what I mean
|
| Well I met up with my common sense
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| And I knew her by the rose in her hair
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| She said: Son, if you don’t make a noise
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| God will never know you’re there
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| So I purchased me a ticket, yeah
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| For a meeting with Jesus Christ
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| He shook my hand and offered me
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| Just this thimble of advice
|
| He was telling me:
|
| Things are what you make of them. |
| . |