| Hi, my name is Mitchell Welling
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| I’m nineteen years old, I am a musician
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| Would you like to hear a song?
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| Hi, my name is none of your concern
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| Just listen and judge me for what you think I’m worth
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| And you said, «I like the way your fingers play the chords
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| I like the way you make me feel at home.»
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| Woah
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| I heard you’re at it again, I just called to say I never left
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| And good luck, good luck, good luck, good luck, good luck
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| I heard you needed some
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| If your father could see the mess you made
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| He wouldn’t like it very much
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| You’re playing a game entitled
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| «Hey, they’re gonna like me when I’m sick!»
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| Just don’t lie in the bed you made yourself
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| And expect me to tuck you in
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| 'Cause I won’t
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| Because I liked the way my fingers played with yours
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| Yeah, I liked the way you made me feel at home
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| Woah, woah |