| Dear orthodox
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| I can’t control my feelings
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| And who hit me?
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| I just might be
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| Coming round the bush
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| And my stilts, they began cracking
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| Subsequently pushed
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| And I looked to see that it was she
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| Just some abandoned little crook like me
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| Adieu, adieu, and fare thee well
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| This was the ending plea
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| Oh, whoa…
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| I was attached on bended knee
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| But I declined my leave
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| But who could blame
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| A fraction of her being?
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| She is cheesy, she is scrawny
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| With her uncanny styling
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| I’m teasing, she is pleasing
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| She just has no wit
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| And I’m sorry I don’t have her face
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| And I’m probably gonna lose this race
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| There is no doubt, she’s such a mouse
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| With such an abstract grace
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| Oh, whoa…
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| There is no cure, I am sure
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| For these ten cent blues
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| And then she chose to dissect me
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| And I was casted into poverty
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| But I did not agree with her
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| She said, «Now, you’ve got nerve.»
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| But I don’t care if I’m granted
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| For all these things
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| If I were one among this crowd
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| Would you call that defeat?
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| In a way, it’s making me crazy
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| In a sense that it’s making me stronger
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| A likely chance, and it’s probably proven
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| In the end, we’ll all walk away
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| Shaking hands on the doormat
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| I salute you, sir
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| A stranger end, a happy fit
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| So glad I’m part of it
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| And that I saw it all |