| The quotidian aches and pains
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| Of being a being
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| All the small nothings, they’re something;
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| The bric-a-brac euphoria
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| «Every problem’s not mine to solve.»
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| Ruth built a shrine to all
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| The passers-by, the banal
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| Ginger fears death
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| But Ruth says that life’s where the pain’s at
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| Ginger’s a bored one
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| Well, Ruth is a bear and Ginger’s a brat
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| Well, back in New York where the fun’s at
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| Waiting at the train tracks
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| Ginger is arguing in her head
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| With her boss—some bullshit hen
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| Well, Ruth, she walks down the platform
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| In black
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| She says it’s good to be back
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| In the city—the big brick hive
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| Ruth says, «When all else fails
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| Dig the hippie shit like it’s working.»
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| Ginger gets frustrated
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| And Ruth just shifts round the wording
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| «Ginger, you’re so good to me
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| But your worry is disconcerting.»
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| «Ruth, don’t overthink it!
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| Now come back to bed I’m just bursting.» |