| Closer than close — you see yourself —
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| A mirrored image — of what you wanted to be.
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| As each day goes by — a little more —
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| You can’t remember — what it was you wanted anyway.
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| The fingers feel the lines — they prod the space —
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| Your ageing face — the face that once was so beautiful,
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| is still there but unrecognizable —
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| Private Hell.
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| The man who you once loved — is bald and fat —
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| And seldom in — working late as usual.
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| Your interest has waned — you feel the strain —
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| The bed springs snap — on the occasions he lies upon you —
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| close your eyes and think of nothing but —
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| Private Hell.
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| Think of Emma — wonder what she’s doing —
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| Her husband Terry — and your grandchildren.
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| Think of Edward — who’s still at college —
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| You send him letters — which he doesn’t acknowledge.
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| 'Cause he don’t care,
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| They don’t care.
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| 'Cause they’re all going through their own — Private Hell.
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| The morning slips away — in a valium haze,
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| And catalogues — and numerous cups of coffee.
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| In the afternoon — the weekly food,
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| Is put in bags — as you float off down the high street
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| The shop windows reflect — play a nameless host,
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| To a closet ghost — a picture of your fantasy —
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| A victim of your misery — and Private Hell
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| Alone at 6 o’clock — you drop a cup —
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| You see it smash — inside you crack —
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| You can’t go on — but you sweep it up —
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| Safe at last inside your Private Hell.
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| Sanity at last inside your Private Hell. |