| The firmament of Tinsel Town
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| Is strung with tungsten stars
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| Lot’s of forty watt successes
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| He says where’s my own shining hour
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| He’s the well kept secret of the underground
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| He’s in debt to the company store
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| Because his only channelled aspiration
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| Was getting back that girl he had before
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| He’s got stacks and stacks of words that rhyme
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| Describing what it is to lose
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| He’s got some just for laughs
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| He’s got some for love
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| That mainline to his blues
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| Some to shed a little light on you and on me
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| Some to shed a little light on the human story
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| The wars of pride and property
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| The rebel Irish and the promised land Jew
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| Fighting behind his eyes and over seas
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| Wounded in action and no ceasefire in view
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| Brave reporters bring the battles home
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| But tonight inside that box
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| Just more bang bang ketchup color to him
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| Just more Twentieth Century Fox
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| All because that ghostly girl comes haunting
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| Just out of reach-outside his bed
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| And she kicks the covers off his sleep
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| For the clumsy things he said
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| She commands his head-She tries his sanity
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| She demands his head-Tonight unknowingly
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| Vaguely she floats and lacelike
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| Blown in like a curtain on the night wind
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| She’s nebulous and naked
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| He wonders where she’s been
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| He grabs at the air because there’s nothing there
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| Her evasiveness stings him
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| With long legs-long lonely legs
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| Bruised from banging into things
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| One day he was standing just outside her door
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| He was carrying an armload of bright balloons
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| She just laughed
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| She said she heard him knocking
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| And she teased him for the moon
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| «Is one the moon, dear clown
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| Tied to a string for me?»
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| He tried but he could not get it down
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| For truth or for mystery
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| He tried but he could not get it down
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| For love or money |