| The queen of spades sticks me a grave,
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| the heavens made to hold her charade,
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| while God points a shotgun at my eye.
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| The troubadors made his way,
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| his blissfulness and my decay,
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| go together like Lucy and diamonds in the sky.
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| And the tailors find it hard to tell a lie,
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| they fix me up a suit made of arrogance and twine.
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| Because I said that I would make the heavens mine,
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| and that I’d climb over any to be,
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| part of the scene.
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| The watchman’s weakest mercy goes,
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| Or he can see how the turncoats blow,
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| a cloud of poison gas dry up my nose.
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| And the music’s only good as far,
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| as the madness in the porn aspire,
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| with the passion that my granduer drags in to.
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| And as the fruits of my tree of labour grow,
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| my boots are prude, the agony below,
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| and the illuminers and the ushers they all know,
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| that I’d pose as anything to be,
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| part of the scene.
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| The advertiser has kind words for me,
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| but the singer’s just been affirmed to me,
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| with her beauty her ambition and her charm.
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| But if you play this game you’ll learn a trick,
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| how to grow a pair and make them stick,
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| like the tatoo of Bob Dylan on my arm.
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| Tightly??? |
| extends his hand,
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| and gives me more,
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| than I can understand.
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| He mourns me when I give in,
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| into those lines,
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| I’ve drawn in the sand.
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| He said jump first then decide next where to land.
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| On a lion’s tongue or in the middle of the sea.
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| Because up in the air is a place that I can’t stand,
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| and I’ll be myself if I have to be,
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| to be part of the scene. |