| Wasting away the better part of the day
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| In the bus on the docks of the UK
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| We walked down the street on that All Hallows' Eve
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| But couldn’t wait to get back to the US of A
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| The torture of eight days straight
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| Without sight of your face is so frightening, oh bloody hell
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| Is hoping to make it straight
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| Or find signs of a bite that won’t taste like poison
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| In London we played half an hour a day
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| For a house full of neds who are wanting us dead
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| In Glasgow and Leeds we find signs of relief
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| An escape from our grief with a fistful of E’s
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| The torture of eight days straight
|
| Without sight of your face is so frightening, oh bloody hell
|
| Is hoping to make a way
|
| To find signs of a bite that won’t taste like poison
|
| The torture of eight days straight
|
| Without sight of your face is so frightening, oh bloody hell
|
| Is hoping to make a way
|
| To find signs of a bite that won’t taste like poison
|
| Eight day hell
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| You’re in an eight day hell
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| You’re in an eight day hell
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| You’re in an eight day hell |