| It happened one night
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| At three in the morning
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| The devil appeared in my studio room
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| And he said I’m your pal
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| And I’ll make you a deal
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| Blow away your struggle
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| And take your soul for a toy
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| After rubbing my eyes
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| I looked all around me
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| At the half-finished drivel I’d worked on for days
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| And I told him my dream
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| Was to live for all time
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| In some perfect refrain
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| Like the man who wrote Danny Boy
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| And I said if you’re real, then I’ll ask you a question
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| While most of us turn into ashes or dust
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| Just you and that other guy go on forever
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| But who writes the history
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| And who do I trust?
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| He gave me a wink
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| And he said it was funny
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| How mortals would pour all their blood, sweat and tears
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| Onto tape, onto paper
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| Or into the air
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| To be lost and forgotten
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| Outside of his kind employ
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| Then I thought I could hear a great sound in the distance
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| Of whiskey-soaked singing
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| And laughter and cheers
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| And they’re saying, that song could bring tears to a glass eye
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| So pass me the papers, I’ll sign them in blood
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| And the smell of the brimstone was turned into greasepaint
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| And the roar of the crowd like the furies of hell
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| And I hear the applause and I hear the bells ringing
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| And the sound of a woman’s voice from the next room saying
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| Come to me now
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| Come lay down beside me
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| Whatever you’re doing you’re too going to see
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| You can’t hold onto shadows, no more than to years
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| So be glad for the pleasures
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| We’re young enough to enjoy
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| So maybe I’m drunk
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| Or maybe a liar
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| Or maybe we’re all living inside a dream
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| You can say what you like
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| When I’m gone, then you’ll see
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| I’ll be down in the dark
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| Down underground
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| With Shakespeare and Bach
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| And the man who wrote Danny Boy |