| And you overdo it, and in truth
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| Exactly, no one will ever know
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| If it's a bad habit
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| Or a quality
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| It is confused between one and the other
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| What ever do you want, you come and go
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| And you tire yourself more and more than you can
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| I am a son and not a man to you
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| Tyranny infuse on me
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| And you overdo it, even more
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| For the lunches that you prepare for me
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| And you are moved if, for you, I swallow
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| Pantagruelic courses
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| If I say no, out of sobrity
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| Get sad, I won't insist
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| Knowing that you would cry for it, otherwise
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| I eat again, until I choke
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| And you overdo it, there is no why
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| In polishing parquets every day
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| Keeping the flaps ready for me
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| That make me lose my balance
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| To dust, to polish, you give yourself to do
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| If I don't know where to stay
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| And I go to bed to let you vent
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| Remove the cushions that need to be changed
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| And you overdo it, what nonsense
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| If only a cough or two I will give
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| In bed, quiet and good, I will find myself
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| With the suction cups on the back
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| Like a bulldog, watch over me
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| With the thermometer within your reach
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| And whether you like it or not, you get me down
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| That crap you prepared
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| And you overdo it, you overdo it
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| And I don't see when you'll stop
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| Because that's why I love you
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| Your virtues, your happiness
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| And the freshness you hide for me
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| They don't give a dull moment with you
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| And if you overdo it, and if you overdo it
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| It is also true that I like you |