| I weep just like a willow
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| Welling from the heart
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| Struck by cruel lightning
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| It tears my heart apart
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| I often feel I’m boxed in
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| Bearing hammer blows
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| But I wear them on the inside
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| So no-one ever knows
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| Sometimes the world gets angry
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| Sometimes a bad wind blows
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| Sometimes there are flash floods
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| Even six foot snows
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| The weather is a mistress
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| Fickle as the rest
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| But most days I can wake up
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| With my arm across her breast
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| A view along the promenade
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| Tinted pastel shades
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| Pictures of Madonna
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| In her many masquerades
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| The young girl in her wedding dress
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| The vicar with a beer
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| A postcard from a long lost friend
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| Wish you were here
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| I walked into a forest
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| Overgrown with briars
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| I reached for my machete
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| To cut away the wires
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| It used to take just one hand
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| But nowadays it’s both
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| To cut away the dead wood
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| And introduce new growth
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| I walked into a church
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| With an open heart and mind
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| Doing what I pleased
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| Without seeing I was blind
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| Like is like a pack of cards
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| Stable when it’s straight
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| The trick is in the balance
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| And it all depends on fate |
| A view along the promenade
|
| Tinted pastel shades
|
| A picture of Our Lady
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| Before the image fades
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| The young girl with her bra undone
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| The vicar with a leer
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| A postcard from a long lost friend
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| Wish you were here
|
| I walked out on the pier
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| Turned round to face the town
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| The sea was lapping gently
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| And the sun was going down
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| The kids were playing for pennies
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| In the kiss-me-quick arcade
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| I smiled at their excitement
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| And all the ghosts I’d laid
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| A view along the promenade
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| Tinted pastel shades
|
| Rows of empty deckchairs
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| On windy esplanades
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| The young girl with her knickers down
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| The vicar feeling queer
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| A postcard from a long lost friend
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| Wish you were here |