| She stepped off the bus with a burst suitcase and a frown
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| And she could smell the breweries and abattoirs on the edge of town
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| And the man who owes her money won’t even lend her an ear
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| When she phones to demand his answer’s vague;
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| He says, «I'll get back to you but right now I’ve got to catch the plague.»
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| Down in a bargain basement she goes to shuffle through careers
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| When all they offer her is friendship and peace souvenirs
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| And the receptionist was playing with a pencil at her lip
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| She asked her if she knew a place to sleep
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| She says, «I'll get back to you but now I’ve got appointments to keep.»
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| There was a shop called B.J.'s that she stepped into to get out of the gale
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| They sold only British manufactured, lifetime guaranteed to fail
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| And a store detective asked her what she had under her coat
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| «It's just a little something that I wrote;
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| It says, 'I'll get back to you unless first your girlfriend slits your throat.'»
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| And by the time the sun set she was penniless and frozen to the core
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| The Salvation Army girls refused her on the grounds they didn’t know her
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| So she asked some whino for advice, but it turned out to be
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| A Sunday sport reporter who was following his nose
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| He said, «I'll get back to you but first we need a picture without clothes.»
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| So she stepped back on that bus with a burst suitcase and a frown
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| She had come to the conclusion that this was not the place for Maggie Brown
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| And it was 6 in the morning when she telephoned me;
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| Until then I’d been living on my knees,
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| But I got back up when she got back to me |