| Down in the cellar in the Boho zone
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| I went looking for some sweet inspiration, oh well
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| Just another hard time band with Negro affectations
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| I was a hopeful in rooms like this
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| When I was working cheap
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| It’s an old romance, the Boho dance
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| Hasn’t gone to sleep
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| But even on the scuffle
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| The cleaner’s press was in my jeans
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| And any eye for detail
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| Caught a little lace along the seams
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| And you were in the parking lot
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| Subterranean by your own design
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| The virtue of your style inscribed
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| On your contempt for mine
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| Jesus was a beggar, He was rich in grace
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| And Solomon kept his head in all his glory
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| It’s just that some steps outside the Boho dance
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| Have a fascination for me
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| A camera pans the cocktail hour
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| Behind a blind of potted palms
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| And finds a lady in a Paris dress
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| With runs in her nylons
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| You read those books where luxury
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| Comes as a guest to take a slave
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| Books where artists in noble poverty
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| Go like virgins to the grave
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| Don’t you get sensitive on me
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| 'Cause I know you’re just too proud
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| You couldn’t step outside the Boho dance now
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| Even if good fortune allowed
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| Like a priest with a pornographic watch
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| Looking and longing on the sly
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| Sure it’s stricken from your uniform
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| But you can’t get it out of your eyes
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| Nothing is capsulized in me
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| On either side of town
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| The streets were never really mine
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| Not mine, not mine, these glamor gowns |