| Her silhouette is bleaker than a cigarette
|
| On a Tuesday morn' when I feel humanity slip
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| From broken hands down to her hips
|
| Realizing lethargy in both her eyes
|
| And as the sun emancipates the dawn
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| Her tan lines cackle with the power of the allegory
|
| For a man he’s deeper than the Sundarbans
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| And the wistful way that he could hold her stare
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| Leaves heartache hanging in the swollen air
|
| And as they fall apart in separate beds
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| He carves forever in the cheap wooden bedstead
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| Realize bitterness in both her eyes
|
| And the way his words could strip the walls she’s climbing
|
| Oh, I’m at the end, oh no, oh
|
| I worry about the way she lay
|
| Oh, I’m at the end, oh no, oh
|
| I worry, worry, worry, worry
|
| He holds her down
|
| Everything is anguish now
|
| With the shallowness of every breath
|
| He waits until she is bereft
|
| Realize nothing now in both her eyes
|
| And the way his words have stripped
|
| The walls she’s climbing
|
| Oh, I’m at the end, oh no, oh
|
| I worry about the way she lay
|
| Oh, I’m at the end, oh no, oh
|
| I worry, worry, worry, worry |