| Lisa used to love to dance
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| Ever since she was ten years old
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| Her bare feet raising dust on a yard
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| Where the grass wouldn’t grow
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| Slowly spinning round and round
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| To the music playing in her head
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| Late at night it could almost drown out
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| The whiskey on her old man’s breath
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| The wrecking yards and dingy bars
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| And abandoned factories
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| But down among the jagged souls
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| A ballerina sways unseen
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| Hard edges hide a tender heart
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| Silent as a midnight prayer
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| Hard edges hide the sweetest part
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| Till you’d never know it’s there
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| Lisa’s in a club downtown
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| Where the neon burns till dawn
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| She calls herself Tina now
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| But she dances to the same old songs
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| Slowly spinning round and round
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| In the smoke and the smell of rye
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| She takes off all her clothes
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| So they don’t see down in her eyes
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| The scarlet rouge and blue tattoos
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| Are only painted on
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| But underneath the dark drumbeat
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| A ballerina dances on
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| Hard edges hide a tender heart
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| Silent as a midnight prayer
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| Hard edges hide the sweetest part
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| Till you never know it’s there |