| Broughton-Mason
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| A kindly word for friends and strangers almost anyone she meets
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| A lonely house at the end of the road full of silly memories
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| And when the locals laugh at her she turns a blind eye to it all
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| She sees the irony and so what no-one really meant it
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| A grey old lady, touched and lonesome, just a little bit eccentric
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| But no-one sees the secrets hidden in a diary stowed beneath the stairs
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| And she sat that night in her chair by the fire hearing his violin
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| Tears appeared and burned her cheeks as he caressed every string
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| As the dawn arrives to hurt her eyes the coals are growing dim
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| And when the room grows cold she still recalls every inch of him
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| Germaine was a leggy lady, barely old enough to know how
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| To hold the right knife at the table it was difficult but somehow
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| She caught the eye of an evening pirate and he sailed his way into her heart
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| Her Valentino played violin till it was well into the night
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| Enjoyed her evening oh so much although she never ate a bite
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| So Cinderella lost her slipper to a Lilting, Latin Gigolo
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| And he stood that night by the tableside playing his violin
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| Tears arrived in Germaine’s eyes as he caressed every string
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| As the day appeared with the tables cleared, she was still there listening
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| And she rose to go with her eyes still closed, but she paused to glance at him
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| There was no-one there but her and as she sadly took her fur, she heard…
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| A little weary eyed, but smiling she wandered home…
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| Alone
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| Then every evening she came back to her table by the window |