| So you come on home, walk through the door
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| She’s in the kitchen searching through the drawers
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| So you stop and watch her and ask what she’s looking for
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| She says she’s not sure
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| And it gets late and you turned off the lights
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| Her body’s so close to you in the night
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| But you dare not touch her and you don’t wanna fight
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| So you just say, «Goodnight.»
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| This old routine will drive you mad
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| It’s just a mumble never spoken out loud
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| And sometimes you don’t even know why you loved her
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| Well you look at her now and you see why
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| And your youngest is out fighting a war
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| But he won’t say what he’s fighting for
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| If he’s gone because of or for you
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| Or which you’d rather be true
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| This old routine will drive you mad
|
| It’s just a mumble never spoken out loud
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| And sometimes you can’t even recall the sound of his laughter
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| Oh, well did you ever really know the sound?
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| This old routine will drive you mad
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| It’s just a mumble never spoken out loud
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| And sometimes you don’t even know how you’re still standing
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| Well she looks at you now and you see how
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| Well you look at them now and you know how |