| This is hell, this is hell
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| I am sorry to tell you
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| It never gets better or worse
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| But you get used to it after a spell
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| For heaven is hell in reverse
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| The bruiser spun a hula hoop
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| As all the barmen preen and pout
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| The neon «i» of nightclub flickers on and off
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| And finally blew out
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| The irritating jingle
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| Of the belly-dancing phoney turkish girls
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| The eerie glare of ultra violet
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| Perfect dental work
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| The failed don juan in the big bow-tie
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| Is very sorry that he spoke
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| For he’s mislaid his punchline
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| More than halfway through a very tasteless joke
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| The fraulein caught him peeking down her gown
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| He’s yelling in her ear
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| And all at once the music stopped
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| As he was intimately bellowing «my dear. |
| . |
| .»
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| The shirt you wore with courage
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| And the violent nylon suit
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| Reappear upon your back
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| And undermine the polished line you try to shoot
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| It’s not the torment of the flames
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| That finally see your flesh corrupted
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| It’s the small humiliations that your memory piles up
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| This is hell, this is hell, this is hell
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| «My favourite things» are playing
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| Again and again
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| But it’s by julie andrews
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| And not by john coltrane
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| Endless balmy breezes and perfect sunsets framed
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| Vintage wine for breakfast
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| And naked starlets floating in champagne
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| All the passions of your youth
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| Are tranquillised and tamed
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| You may think it looks familiar
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| Though you may know it by another name
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| This is hell, this is hell |