| The times were goin’boom and boom and bust
|
| My feet of clay, they’ve dried to dust
|
| But it isn’t the red we painted,
|
| It’s… just… rust
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| That signature thing that used to bring a following
|
| I have trouble now, even remembering
|
| So why did I kiss him so hard late last friday night
|
| And keep on letting him change all my plans
|
| I’m either so sick in the head
|
| I need to be bled dry to quit
|
| Or I just really used to love him
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| I sure hope that’s it To keep in touch would do me whooping dutch
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| 'Cause it isn’t the rush of remembering, it’s just lush
|
| And that signature thing is only growing harrowing
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| I should have no trouble now to keep from following
|
| So why did I kiss him so hard late last friday night
|
| And keep on letting him change all my plans
|
| I’m either so sick in the head
|
| I need to be bled dry to quit
|
| Or I just really used to love him
|
| I sure hope that’s it Sometimes
|
| When I bust my feet of clay, they dried to dust
|
| That what isn’t the red we painted
|
| It’s… just… rust
|
| That signature thing that used to bring a following
|
| I have trouble now, even remembering
|
| So why did I kiss him so hard late last friday night
|
| And keep on letting him change all my plans
|
| I’m either so sick in the head
|
| I need to be bled dry to quit
|
| Or I just really used to love him
|
| Or I just really used to love him
|
| Or I just really used to love him
|
| I sure hope that’s it ll |