| Are we the fools for being suprised that a silence could end with no sound
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| Like the silent movie era, like with snow, like when Sal’s burned down
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| Well, yeah, there was noise, but nothing to mark the passing on
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| Of that great unspoken chance we had found
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| Where the night’s end came, well-trod and familiar
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| Like the Charlie Chapin walk that fades to black
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| And there wasn’t anyone trying to sell their souls
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| They were only trying to buy them back
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| They were only trying to buy them back
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| Well, yeah, there was a Sal, he walked with bulging pockets 'round town
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| Either he was up to no good or he just got excited watching things burn down
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| Well I guess he got the idea if you hold a chunk of gold in your hand now
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| For once in your life you can throw some weight around
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| And Sal, you slimeball sell-out, how can we blame you?
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| We all want something to put our fingers on
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| And you never know the true throne that you’ve lost
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| Till the vinyl barstools are gone
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| Till the vinyl barstools are gone
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| If you toss around some words you might say that
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| Sal was carrying a torch for the mob
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| But the mob’s gone too, yeah, the only sign of them left
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| Is on every screen at the multiplex, and we go there, no prob, hey
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| 'Cause there ain’t no cowboys in this Connecticut town
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| No, not anymore, no, not since Sal’s burned down
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| Once you’d dip your tin cup down in the muse’s watering hole
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| Or pioneer a new patch of common ground
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| Then you’d lie on your time-traveled bedroll
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| Quite amazed at the expansive terrain
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| And if anyone said that you’d never have fame and fortune, just that bar
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| You know you’d ride that way again
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| I bet you’d ride that way again |