| If I have the space of half a day
|
| I’m ashamed of half the things I say
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| I’m ashamed to have turned out this way
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| And I desire to make amends
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| But it don’t make no difference, now
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| And no one’s listening, anyhow
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| And lists of sins and solemn vows
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| Don’t make you any friends
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| There’s an old trick played
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| When the light and the wine conspire
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| To make me think I’m fine
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| I’m not, but I have got half a mind
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| To maybe get there, yet
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| When the sky goes pink in Paris, France
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| Do you think of the girl who used to dance
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| When you’d frame her moving within your hands
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| Saying, «This I won’t forget»
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| What happened to the man you were
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| When you loved somebody before her?
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| Did he die?
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| Or does that man endure, somewhere far away?
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| Our lives come easy and our lives come hard
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| And we carry them like a pack of cards:
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| Some we don’t use, but we don’t discard
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| But keep for a rainy day |