| Open your little door
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| Step out into the downpour
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| Listen to the sound your
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| Listen to the sound your soul makes
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| As if it’s soulmates
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| With the ground
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| The rain falls down
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| The ground
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| The rain falls down
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| To the floor
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| The summer rain has come again
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| The pavement sizzles like drizzling lemonade
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| Oh, and the sunlight seems unlikely
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| To be on my cheeks for one fine evening
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| There’s nobody else around
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| Absence has a powerful sound
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| Blades of grass are fine enough to make a scalpel proud
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| Alka-seltzer sizzle drizzle pelts the ground
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| I can’t help myself but shout aloud
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| To tell the crowd
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| That while they’re out, I’m out of bounds
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| I could flee til my knees hurt
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| Feel the breeze in my t-shirt
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| But there’s so many aesthetically pleasing things here to see first
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| Flowers bob, nod and rattle
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| Under fat drops of rain as big as apples
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| And the street steams like a kettle, singing
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| Each bead a little a nettle, stinging
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| My skin in a million different places
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| Precipitation amidst the vegetation
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| The British air is changing
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| And sitting under parked cars there are kitties waiting
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| Watching me pace by
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| I stop and then say hi
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| Could never sing, but I sang though; |
| Dionysius
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| Air rang with the tang of a mango; |
| delicious
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| Living in a fictitious middle English mangrove, that’s been kissed
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| With the liquid sunshine that some find in Orlando
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| I hang under the jungle canopy
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| Catching an undiluted glimpse of clarity
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| Refracting through the prism imprisoning my sanity
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| For all the laws we’re living in anarchy
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| Causing wars, it’s giving me anomy
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| The rows of windows are frames inside a strange gallery
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| Of apathy
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| Inhabitants happily having tea
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| Warm water colours reality
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| Washes away the banality
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| My hair is getting wetter
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| The air is getting fresher
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| Before the storm I’m sure I could barely bear the pressure out
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| But it’s getting better now
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| It was one of those horribly hot days
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| The barometer’s ominous clock face
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| Was something Hieronymus Bosch paints
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| From Shropshire to Gloucester to Warwickshire
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| Forests of conifers congregate like choristers
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| And praise displays of flowers as a florist does
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| Knowledge buds and blooms in the soil
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| Olives crushed producing an oil
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| To lubricate the mind
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| Illuminate and shine
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| A human ray of light
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| Right through the rain tonight
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| It just might quite save a life |