| I remember Monica at the US Open
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| She mighta been 16
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| Couldn’t’ve been much more
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| Answering some questions
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| And giggling, I’d never seen
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| Someone so alive on TV before
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| Do you remember Monica
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| Shrieking on her backhand
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| Disguising herself as she went out at night
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| Coloring her hair
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| Like someone was telling her
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| Lay low, invisible and out of sight
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| And then, Monica
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| The blade came, Monica
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| Like God spitting on you, a knife in your back
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| We read it in the paper
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| Then moved on to other things
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| But for you all the colors fade to black
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| And oh, Monica
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| There you are, Monica
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| On the cross with Jesus and Martin Luther King
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| Just like John Lennon
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| By that hotel
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| You have to pay for our sins
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| Was it like being raped?
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| Was it like being dead?
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| Like a bad movie over and over again?
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| And then, did everyone
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| Who came close to you
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| Suddenly hold a knife in their hand?
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| And now you’re back, Monica
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| Grim and hammering
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| Trying not to think about that thing, then
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| And I hope that you win
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| Every medal you can win
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| But it may never be much fun again
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| And oh, Monica
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| There you are, Monica
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| On the cross with Jesus and Martin Luther King
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| Just like John Lennon
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| By that hotel
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| You have to pay for our sins
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| Just like Jesus, by that hotel
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| You will have to pay for our sins |