| My little one
|
| Where have you been
|
| Your blinding eyes
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| What have they seen
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| The people down in Lincoln town
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| Wore their hats upon their sleeves
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| I heard some talk in old New York
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| Just ask the autumn leaves
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| I never saw it for myself
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| It’s just what I believe
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| It’s somebody else now
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| And they are not you
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| The difference just burns me
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| But that’s nothing new
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| Nothing new
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| I wrote a song in Wollongong
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| It made me sad for days
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| The hotel man from Turkestan
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| Soaking up the rays
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| I wish I’d been a woman then
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| I might have been amazed
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| The better I make it
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| The worse that I do
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| And it’s so ancient
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| But that’s nothing new
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| Nothing new
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| The music was liquid
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| Somehow it slipped through
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| Ah, it all escapes me
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| But that’s nothing new to you now
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| The truth was a lie and
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| The ointment was glue
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| I was found missing
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| But that’s nothing new
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| Nothing new
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| The feeling was absent
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| Red wine was blue
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| The gift is the present
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| But that’s nothing new to you now
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| And there’s nothing more to do now
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| Oh, now it’s all for nothing
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| Oh, now it’s all for nothing
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| Oh, now it’s all for nothing
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| Oh, now it’s all for nothing
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| Oh, now it’s all for nothing
|
| Oh, now it’s all for nothing
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| Oh, now it’s all for nothing
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| Oh, now it’s all for nothing
|
| They blind their eyes
|
| What have they seen |