| He wraps a smile 'round his tired face
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| To hide the marks of the walk of life through dire straits
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| No brothers in arms
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| The sultan of mood swing
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| Moving in tune with the melodies that truth sings
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| He knows the music will stop
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| And he’s okay with that, he can face the facts
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| He just wants it to mean something to these people when he fades to black
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| And he’s not sure, fighting for a lost cause and effect
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| He tries to find clarity behind locked doors in his head
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| And if you saw him, you wouldn’t know it
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| Hell, his friends don’t
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| He’s just another lost soul who blocks the world out with his headphones
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| Words signify nothing, he doesn’t feel your complements
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| Doesn’t believe the things you say when you try to build his confidence
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| There is no success, only an inability to realise a goal
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| This blackjack of all trades playing with the rest, he might just fold
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| He can see what his opponents hold, read their tactics, call their bluffs
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| But he can’t play his own hand right, it’s not enough
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| It’s the way he plays, convinced he’s lost from the first turn
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| He reads the other players fine from the skirts to the hurt words
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| The smirks to the T-shirts, the nervous to the certain
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| Every apple has it’s earthworms
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| Sorry, he gets carried away when he’s writing in the third person |