| You say you are an old cassette that has gone and spilt its spool
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| you’re far more like a wet cardboard tube on this nightclub toilet floor.
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| As I describe my lonely, you listen very clear:
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| the last set of goalposts taken down, summer of odd numbered year.
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| She says «if you’re unhappy, then you gotta find the cure»
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| Well I prescribe me one more beer, beyond that I am unsure
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| May not be be all and end all, in my defence she is the whole
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| I’ve thrown my goalkeeper forward, she’s catenaccio
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| Flotsam, Jetsam and Spindrift: all the girls I have loved,
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| dumped to earth by a spendthrift, gilt angels from above.
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| And I saw God in the bathroom, I baptised him in sick
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| embraced him around his cistern «c'est la mort!, enough of this».
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| Knees knocking and
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| Blood flowing so
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| I want you to know that I want to.
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| And later she said something that stuck hard in my mind:
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| «we are their Capel Celyn, they gotta keep their slippers dry,
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| to empathise with Tory’s to invite upon disease,
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| a safer bet’s to pack your bags, go holiday in Eyam»
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| I will take you where the sun shines, cast shadows on your face,
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| crawl into their deepest recess, 'til I freeze or dehydrate
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| We’ll live and breathe it in real time, montage is for the dead
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| and my heart’s still doing Fosburys nowhere near finished yet |