| Waitress sets the tables, two and four and six
|
| Laying placemats, knife, fork, spoon upon napkin
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| All the counter people, she knows us all by name
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| A counter people fission, everywhere we are the same
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| Oh, and once everything starts to shift
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| Tip the weight that makes this whole thing give
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| Oh, but I don’t know where to put my hands
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| And the thought of silence makes me sick
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| Hey, I think it might be getting to me
|
| Hey, I think it might be finally getting to me
|
| Hey, I think it might be finally getting to me
|
| Hey, I think it might be finally getting to me
|
| All of the pretty people are out here
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| The women with their jewels and their long dangling earrings
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| And the men with one hand on the small of her back
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| The other casually with his thumb through the belt loop of his waistband
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| And so you line 'em up
|
| A single cell and another one gone
|
| Ostracon vase with your name on the line
|
| And so you line 'em up
|
| A single cell and another one gone
|
| Ostracon vase with your name on the line
|
| Hey, I think it might be getting to me
|
| Hey, I think it might be finally getting to me
|
| Hey, I think it might be finally getting to me
|
| Hey, I think it might be finally getting to me |