| I fried my head
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| I’m not a brunette
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| I’m a down and dusky blonde
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| I am living in a tree
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| When I lie in bed I see
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| Beyond my lover’s head, the moon
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| I hear the rain
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| I am conscious of my voice as a tool
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| It’s more demure
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| Tell your friend, the singing queen
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| With her matinee good looks
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| She talks like talking from a book
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| I speak the language of my village
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| Of my street
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| But I need a friend and I choose you
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| I tell you the way I feel
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| The truth is crushing like a heel
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| I will forget the kiss and feel
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| If you will too
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| It’s a drag that you’re getting old
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| I like to think about the year
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| When we sobbed and then we cheered
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| The town deserted like a film
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| Your torso crushing me
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| Into the country and the tunnels
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| And the fields
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| I read a book a day like an apple
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| But I did not eat
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| And so the doctor came to me
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| She said «A woman does not live
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| By the printed word
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| Forgive yourself and eat»
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| Autumn sped along outside
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| Trick photography on speed
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| I was locked inside a room
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| They made a deal they would control
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| The simple things like bodies
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| But I kept my soul
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| When I needed someone I chose you
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| Because the fledgling soul awaits
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| And on the balcony she quakes
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| And she is waiting for the sign
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| And when the brother does not come
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| And when the sister’s much too young
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| She chooses you |