| On a lark, on a whim
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| I said, «there's two kinds of men in this world and you’re neither of them.»
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| And his fist cut the smoke
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| I had an eighth of a second to wonder if he got the joke
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| And in the car, headed home
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| She asked if I had considered the prospect of living alone
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| With a steak held to my eye
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| I had to summon the confidence needed to hear her goodbye
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| And another brief chapter without any answers blew bye
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| And the songs that she sang in the shower are stuck in my head
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| Like «Bring Out Your Dead», «Breakfast In Bed»
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| And experience robs me of hope that she’ll make it back home
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| So I’m stuck on my own
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| Oh, I’m stuck on my own
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| In the room by myself
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| Looks like I’m here with a guy that I judge worse than anyone else
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| So I pace and I pray
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| And I repeat the mantras that might keep me clean for the day
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| And the songs that she sang in the shower all ring in my ears
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| Like «Wish You Were Here»
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| How I wish you were here
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| And experience robs me of hope that you’ll ever return
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| So I breathe and I burn
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| I breathe and I burn
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| And the church bells are ringing for those who are easy to please
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| And the frost on the ground probably envies the frost on the trees
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| And the songs that she sang in the shower are stuck in my mind
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| Like «Yesterday's Wine»
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| Like «Yesterday's Wine»
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| And experience tells me that I’ll never hear them again
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| Without thinking of then
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| Without thinking of then |