| They say she’s not a lady
|
| 'Cause every love has its price
|
| Night after night, Ruby
|
| Another man at her side
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| And each one colder than the last
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| The men get older
|
| And the bed lies
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| The dream dies
|
| And the looks fade too fast
|
| Ruby’s got a past
|
| But when she’s sleeping alone
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| She dreams of cleansing her soul
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| Just like they promised in church
|
| But the Sundays seem to come and go
|
| Like the preachers on the radio
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| Above the noise, and the neon
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| There’s a saxophone
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| Playing smoky old familiar notes
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| That float up the stairs
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| Ruby takes a rose from her hair
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| Sees her face in the mirror
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| Wipes her cheek with a tear
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| Under the make-up, she longs to be touched
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| Ruby don’t ask for much
|
| And when she’s sleeping alone
|
| She dreams of cleansing her soul
|
| Just like they promised in church
|
| But the Sundays seem to come and go
|
| Like the preachers on the radio
|
| Some sell their bodies for dimes
|
| While others marry
|
| For the houses, and the jewelry
|
| It’s a real thin line
|
| What you charge for your time |