| Shore to shore, got some land between
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| Island life is living from a cup of broken queens
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| Hit the jackpot rolling through a pipe dream in a knot
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| And I’m missing what was pissing up the wall that I forgot
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| I forgot, I forgot…
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| I am the bus driver, give me some grace
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| You’ve never seen me and you don’t know my face
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| She was no Hattie Carroll; |
| it was cold, it was blue
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| And it only happened despite me or you
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| Me or you, me or you…
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| Smoking paper to the crimson flashing bars
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| Drinking cocktail wine or cottage cream and passing strangers' cars
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| Live in one-room housing with a roof to meet the sky
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| Spelling, 'Jesus won’t you please us 'cause you seem a damn nice guy
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| Damn nice guy, damn nice guy'
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| We listened to passengers stamping old songs
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| And we lose what’s to lose when you haven’t done wrong
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| Drums too slow for a funeral beat
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| No strumming of strings and no stamping of feet
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| Of feet, of feet…
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| It’s awfully considerate of you to think of me
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| And it’s not so hard to see you smoking fags and drinking tea
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| It’s the crummy lost-at-seasick with a floating on the waves
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| To join the other flotsam with the ripped up queens and knaves
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| Queens and knaves, queens and knaves…
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| There lies a lady, she’s gone and she’s gone
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| She’ll be a fine lady before too long
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| But I hit her head and she finished her walking
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| She shouldn’t be dead, she was too busy talking
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| Busy talking, busy talking…
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| They can fill a cup or two and still disturb the peace
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| It’s never made it all the way from shore to shore, from west to east
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| I read that independence was a lightness in your step
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| You walked away, I felt so heavy at the start of every day
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| Every day, every day…
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| I’ve been waiting an hour and the bus hasn’t come
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| I’ve been cursing my God for the lack of the sun
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| I’ve been ruined by destiny, lowered by fate
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| And the upshot of this is I’m going to be late
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| To be late, to be late… |