| Can I tell you about a man on Albion Street?
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| By nature this man is very mean
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| He owns a row of houses
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| With matching beds of flowers
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| He tells me that he loves me in his sleep
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| Oh when I wind him up he goes and goes
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| Well he’s a real man’s man
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| And a poet behind closed doors
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| Oh well he’s a gentleman
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| He’s a gentleman that’s for sure
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| Oh when he spins me around the kitchen
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| Piroutte pulls me to him
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| And bends me like a flower in the sun
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| And when he goes I’m gonna miss him
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| And I’m staring at the ceiling
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| And I keep on coming down, I’m coming down
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| And can I tell you about a man that doesn’t say much
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| Doesn’t speak with his words
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| But he speaks with his touch
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| Oh and when he spins me around
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| I keep on spinning 'round
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| When I get so high
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| And I keep on coming down
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| Oh he’s a gentleman
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| He’s a gentleman that’s for sure
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| Oh when he spins me around the kitchen
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| Piroutte pulls me to him
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| And bends me like a flower in the sun
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| And when he goes I’m gonna miss him
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| And I’m staring at the ceiling
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| And I keep on coming down, I’m coming down
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| So shut the door and call the station
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| Go and tell them that we’re missing
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| While we’re dancing in our private world
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| When he’s spinning me 'round
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| He’s a gentleman that’s for sure
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| He’s my gentleman
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| He’s my gentleman
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| Oh, oh, oh
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| He’s me gentleman
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| He’s my gentleman |