| My Harlequin is a little sly,
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| He speaks so little.
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| My Harlequin is a little sage,
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| Although he looks like a simpleton.
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| Ah, my Harlequin
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| Success and glory come to nothing
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| He needs one love
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| And I am his wife.
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| He will solve any question
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| Although seemingly simple,
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| In fact, he is not simple,
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| My Harlequin is an eccentric.
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| Alas, he is a complex person,
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| But the main trouble
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| That looks up too often
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| In recent years.
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| And in the sky they fly, fly,
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| Flying in all directions
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| And in the sky they whistle, whistle
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| Iron chicks.
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| And white light, iron whistle
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| I see from the window.
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| Oh my God, how many birds
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| And there is only one life.
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| My Harlequin is a little sage,
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| Although he looks like a simpleton.
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| "We'll all be finished soon!" |
| -
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| That's what he says.
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| My Harlequin is a sly, simpleton,
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| Get used to anything
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| He is looking for something in the sky
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| And cries at night.
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| I am Colombina, I am a wife,
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| I go after him.
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| The candle in the van is lit,
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| We are good alone
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| High in the evening sky
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| Chicks and I'm watching.
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| But something in this is from
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| What I don't like.
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| Days go by, days go by
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| Along cities and villages,
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| Flashing new lights
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| And music, and rubbish,
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| And in these villages, cities
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| I'm taking out the rug
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| And my husband walks on his hands,
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| And I'm dancing again.
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| All over the earth, all over the earth
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| Not so many places.
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| Here Petrograd is noisy in the darkness,
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| Which time we are here.
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| He is my Harlequin
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| He leads into his darkness.
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| But something in this is from
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| What I don't like.
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| Squeeze whiskey, squeeze whiskey
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| Wipe the fire from your face
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| Yes, something in this is from longing,
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| Which has no end!
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| We are in this world on the table
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| We take quite a bit.
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| We are driving, we are driving on the ground,
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| Until we die. |