| I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel,
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| you were talking so brave and so sweet,
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| giving me head on the unmade bed,
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| while the limousines wait in the street.
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| Those were the reasons and that was New York,
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| we were running for the money and the flesh.
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| And that was called love for the workers in song
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| probably still is for those of them left.
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| Ah but you got away, didn’t you babe,
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| you just turned your back on the crowd,
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| you got away, I never once heard you say,
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| I need you, I don’t need you,
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| I need you, I don’t need you
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| and all of that jiving around.
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| I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel
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| you were famous, your heart was a legend.
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| You told me again you preferred handsome men
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| but for me you would make an exception.
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| And clenching your fist for the ones like us who are oppressed by the figures of beauty,
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| you fixed yourself, you said, «Well never mind,
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| we are ugly but we have the music.»
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| And then you got away, didn’t you babe…
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| I don’t mean to suggest that I loved you the best,
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| I can’t keep track of each fallen robin.
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| I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel,
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| that’s all, I don’t even think of you that often. |