| Each night at eight
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| Under her window he’d wait
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| He would look up &shout,
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| «Ain't cha comin' out coming out my pretty pretty mammo
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| Ain’t cha coming out tonight?»
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| He never played music for his serenade
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| He’d just look up &shout,
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| «Ain't cha comin' out coming out my pretty pretty mammo
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| Ain’t cha coming out tonight?»
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| He couldn’t strum a guitar
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| A banjo or mandolin
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| He couldn’t sing tralalala
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| He couldn’t whistle or hum
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| He’d just come there &shout,
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| «Ain't cha coming out, ain’t cha coming out, ain’t cha coming out?» |