| once we tried to record the singin birds
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| cable stretched for miles from yr door
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| near the landin of the planes i never felt so plain
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| birds never sang the same again
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| i take the train in the mornin when it’s still night out
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| a night owl sings for the moonlight crowd
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| on the frozen path to yr bedroom door
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| i walked beside u between sycamore
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| i never told u this but on christmas
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| i saw u sellin trees on avenue A
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| winter wind knows yr paper skin
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| went to paris once -- i’ve never been
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| theres a certain slant of light on madison tonight
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| it shines on vines that grow in rows roun
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| telephone wires never tire
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| of carryin midnight crows
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| does the book of nightmares call across
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| the valley of not knowing
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| the wayward vine of wintertime
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| and where on earth it is growing
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| and are yr typewriter words for january third
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| the key to the secret venue
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| perhaps you’ve heard singin of the birds
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| you cant change a person ever darlin can you? |