| I’m sitting here wondering if this matchbox will hold my dreams
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| Will the red head in my arms go up in flames?
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| Or dissolve mighty regimes with her screams, or so it seems
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| She dragged my face from the eye to my lip on the rough side of the striking
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| strip
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| To the port side of a sinking ship
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| Staring in a compact mirror
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| A siren calling from another era
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| While you made faces and then blew kisses
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| Drowned in a pool that hypnotized Narcissus
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| They say I have a perfect face for radio
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| And a trumpet for listening
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| A cheek to turn to you
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| An eye for glistening
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| Tear that tear from me
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| Hold it in your memory
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| Pull away the powder and pain painted dream
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| Of this and that disgrace
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| A silver band of marching soles
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| A button of brass an epaulet of gold
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| That lenten light, that slight fanfare that consoles
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| That trivial, sniveling rosary, that ring-a-ding rosemary
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| Condemned a man, alas, at last, at requiem mass
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| I sound much better than I look
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| Like a hero in a book
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| Now there is too much at stake
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| But perhaps you mistook my mistake
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| For the tip in the print you dusted for
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| From the hand you forgot to shake
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| Tumbledown Dick said to King Oliver
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| «I don’t shrink down at the thought of you
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| Give the people back their ringlet Prince just like you ought to do
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| Journey far from here like Gulliver
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| To lands at the edge of everywhere
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| That we have still to discover
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| Where there’s a sole of a jackboot in a broken brace
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| Poised above a human face forever and ever»
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| You don’t need to see my face
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| Radio Is Everything
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| You don’t need to know my name
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| Radio Is Everything
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| The lie that I tell
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| It just doesn’t matter
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| If I should deceive you
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| Or if I should flatter
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| If your bankroll gets thin while some kitty gets fatter
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| Radio Is Everything
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| From the straight to the narrow to the broadcast from within
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| Radio Is Everything |