| Well, you met her there on a New York City stair
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| You were throwing up on your shoes
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| Tryin' to write the great book when it really had you shook
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| With a bad case of wintertime blues
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| So you drag her down to the ragged side of town
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| She had a taxi to carry her home
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| Then she left her handkerchief there beside you on the seat
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| As if to emphasize that you were all alone
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| It smelled like springtime and you were just a boy
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| And all the lilacs in Ohio
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| All the lilacs in Ohio. |
| There ya go
|
| In the city streets and the dirty winter snow
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| All the lilacs in Ohio — hio
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| Well, she’s the love story you speak of
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| When you talk to Sam at the bar
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| But it’s in the details your story often fails
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| Yeah, close, but no cigar
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| And you might see your own ass in a double whiskey glass
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| But you’ll never erase her smile
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| And you’ll never write it down, never find her in this town
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| Of phantom dreams and fingernail files
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| It was springtime, and you were just a boy
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| And all the lilacs in Ohio
|
| All the lilacs in Ohio. |
| There ya go
|
| In city streets and the dirty winter snow
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| All the lilacs in Ohio — hio
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| So you pin her handkerchief to your clean white linen sheets
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| And you unmake your bed, crawl in
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| You imagine her there and you’re tangled in her hair
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| And she smells like flowers again
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| And it’s springtime, and you were just a boy
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| All the lilacs in Ohio
|
| All the lilacs in Ohio. |
| There ya go
|
| In the city streets and the dirty winter snow
|
| All the lilacs in Ohio — hio |