| Parents, don’t be too kind to your kids
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| Or else how will they grow up to be
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| Louche Parisian sinners or Nashville country singers
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| Singing about the terrible things their parents did?
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| Lovers, don’t be sparing with the truth
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| Break their hearts if that’s what you must do
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| Fill them with remorse, tinged with hope of course
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| And let their baser instincts pull them through
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| And though it seems a little strange to me
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| People never really change, it seems
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| And all across America
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| Waitresses and boys who play guitar
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| They fall in love and they fall out, the boys have something to sing about
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| The girls go drown their sorrows at the bars
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| While in front rooms all across the old country
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| Sat spellbound in front of their TVs
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| The younger brothers and sisters wonder at what they’re missing
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| And wonder how the air tastes when you’re really free
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| And though it seems a little strange to me
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| People never really change, it seems
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| We’re all broken boys and girls, at heart
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| Come together fall apart
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| And in Battersea power station, the fisher king
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| Ponders on his ruin, among many other things
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| He folds his broken hands
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| Surveys his barren lands
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| And prays for hope to whisper on the wind
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| ‘Cause we were born without reason, we’ll die without meaning
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| And the world will not shrug all that much at our passing
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| You can try and try and try
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| No one ever makes it out alive
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| No one ever makes it out alive
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| All you broken boys and girls
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| With your tattered flags unfurled
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| Fix yourselves then fix the fisher king
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| All you broken boys and girls
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| With your tattered flags unfurled
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| Fix yourselves then fix the fisher king
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| All you broken boys and girls
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| With your tattered flags unfurled
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| Fix yourselves then fix the fisher king
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| Won’t you fix yourselves to fix the fisher king?
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| Won’t you fix yourselves to fix the fisher king? |