| Though the coffins are calling I’m not coming
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| I’m too young to listen and I’m still scrawling on
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| See-saws and slides, skipping ropes and swings
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| Toothpaste and trousers, watches and wedding rings
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| She shouted to me under the juggernaut roar
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| «This is the Bad Life, what are we here for?»
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| And wonderful world why are you full
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| Of endless monotony and tiresome fools?
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| These people that surrounded me were damaged and done
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| And we were as compatible as swimming pools and slums
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| And why are you grinning from ear to ear
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| Isn’t this the Bad Life?
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| Though there was leads in the petrol and bacteria in the beer
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| Though she moved away and left me hopeless, I was writing
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| I Was Here
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| She said this Bad Life that I’m leading is deceiving and depriving me
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| I said why don’t you try relieving me, while she was reading
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| I was stealing from the library
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| And sweetness and sadness lived in sin
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| With built-in indigestion the new buildings held their stomachs in
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| Goodness and Badness were hardly anything
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| I wanted to love her but she was never in
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| Though they were taking out tongues in the land of the gun
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| Though the sweating was getting near
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| Though her head was hung saying I did not become her, I keep writing
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| I Was Here
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| Though the dusts were growing in my lungs and some
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| Were turning backs on the babies turning blue
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| And I adore you but before you say «I adore you too»
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| Say I Was Here, and so were you |