| An old lost book has reappeared
|
| With the pages all dog-eared
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| That’s how I know you’ve been here
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| The garden’s gone to rack and ruin
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| But I’ll be up and the crack of noon
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| In time to seize the evening
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| They say that waking up is hard to do
|
| It doesn’t take a Sherlock Holmes
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| To decipher all your poems
|
| As abstract as you make them
|
| Put painted hand-prints on T-shirts
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| Laugh until the stomach hurts
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| Days like these don’t have price tags
|
| Talk of the love and the like
|
| She let him borrow her bike
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| With tyres gasping for air
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| Brought it back with wheel rim buckled
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| He hopes that with any luck she’ll
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| Decide to ride the bus to work come morning
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| They say that waking up is hard to do
|
| But when she did
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| Breaking up has never been easier
|
| Now there’s a hint of that perfume
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| On blankets in the lounge room
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| That’s how I know you slept there |