| All around the room in a whirl
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| You saw dancers catch fire when you were still a girl
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| In a town that’s built on the whispers of tattlers
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| But yet to inspire a single a single dot in the Commonwealth atlas
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| God only knows how these things ever start
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| An empty plate in the place of a heart
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| That finds it’s way on a trail of crumbs
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| And stains windowpanes on the prints of thumbs
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| So go take rest
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| Pull the blankets up tightly with your knees to your chest
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| A far off sound
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| But to such delicate ears it must seem like there’s a zoo burning down
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| A nagging ache there must be some place better
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| Searched through every library book down to the last letter
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| Even Thornfield Manor sounds enticing
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| With echoes down the hall and on the walls the heads of bison
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| So go take rest
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| Pull the blankets up tightly with your knees to your chest
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| A schoolyard song
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| And no one can blame you for getting it so horribly wrong
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| The old saddlers breath that always smells of leather
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| The café sign letters been faded forever
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| Irrelevant facts from the history tester
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| Snowed under the chalk dust of last semester
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| Can’t you see
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| What it’s done to your mother, what it’s done to me?
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| All their words
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| Will shatter into pieces when I lock you in my arms again |