| An ingénue's delight
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| She can’t find anything she likes
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| Only the finest foods and wines
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| And satin robes make up her mind
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| Incessantly
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| I’ll reduce your life
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| I’ll make you think about it twice
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| Incessantly
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| Oh when the roses turn to grey
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| I’ll know, I’ll know, I’ll know
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| Your beauty’s bound to be passé
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| I’ll know, I’ll know, I’ll know
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| Oh when the dark dissolves to day
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| I’ll know, I’ll know, I’ll know
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| Your beauty’s like papier-mâché
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| She’ll connect the polka dot on her sun dress
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| Conceited rationale
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| You run from your only friends
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| No one believes you
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| They’ll just treat you to cocaine
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| Your voguish nature and nomenclature
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| Have an expiry date
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| Oh when the roses turn to grey
|
| I’ll know, I’ll know, I’ll know
|
| Your beauty’s bound to be passé
|
| I’ll know, I’ll know, I’ll know
|
| Oh when the dark dissolves to day
|
| I’ll know, I’ll know, I’ll know
|
| Your beauty’s like papier-mâché
|
| Oh when the roses turn to grey
|
| I’ll know, I’ll know, I’ll know
|
| Your beauty’s bound to be passé
|
| I’ll know, I’ll know, I’ll know
|
| Oh when the darkness turns to day
|
| I’ll know, I’ll know, I’ll know
|
| Your beauty’s now just a charade
|
| I’ll know, I’ll know, I’ll know
|
| Your beauty’s now just a charade |