| It’s a lethal ballet
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| Air traffic congestion
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| I’m having a baby
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| Second thoughts, scotch, dinner
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| And someone’s dancing on the box
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| A former MP
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| And no one was watching
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| My oldest friends are a serious habit
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| Fly boy blue, so bring your faces home,
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| To my sweet trampoline
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| And acres of crash site love
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| Someone’s dancing on the box
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| A former MP
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| And no one was watching
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| My oldest friends are a serious habit
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| Fly boy blue, so bring your faces home
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| To my sweet trampoline
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| And acres of crash site love
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| Presidential delays
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| Suppose I’m just lucky
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| I’m having a shin dig
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| Me, Red Bob and the ivory host
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| And someone’s shouting on the box
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| A chinless prefect gone Godzilla
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| My newest friends have forgotten my name
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| But so have I, so far so good and home
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| You and me trampoline and oceans of crash site love
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| What can be said of the cigarette smokes
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| A prop for a joke or a mark on the clock
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| If I stopped would the bus ever come
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| Would the dawn ever kiss me, forgiven me, knowing what’s done
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| Would the drivel make scribble make sense and then song
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| Would the woodbines denied like the northern man’s thumbs
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| Perverse as it may sound I sometimes believe
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| The tip to my lips just reminds me to breathe
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| What can be said of the whiskey and wine
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| Random abandon or ballast for joy
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| That was scuppered with trust, little more than a boy
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| And besides I’m in excellent company
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| I’m reaching the age when decisions are made
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| On life and living and I’m sure last ditch
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| That’ll I’ll ask for more time
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| But mother forgive me
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| I’ll still want a bottle of good Irish whiskey and a bundle of smokes
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| in my grave
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| But there isn’t words yet for the comfort I get
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| From the gentle lunette at the top of the nape of the neck that I wake to
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| And where are the words for the leap in my chest
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| When mischief appears either side of the scar on your nose
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| Made by a rose thorn, so you claim
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| By a rose thorn |