| Every day, several times a day,
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| a thought comes over me.
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| I owe more debts than I ever can pay back
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| more money than I’ll ever see.
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| I walk around the streets of Coney Island
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| I look through the windows of every store
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| I peep through the hallways and the doorways and
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| I think of this debt I owe.
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| I peep through the hallways and the doorways and
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| I think of this debt I owe.
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| I feel like a piece of crushed wreckage,
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| some smashed car in a salvage yard,
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| a vision of an old newspaper
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| blown across an old navy yard,
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| a curbstone chipped and beaten,
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| a piece of gum stuck to a shoe,
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| an empty pack of used matches,
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| an empty version of you.
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| an empty pack of used matches,
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| an empty version of you.
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| People stroll and they saunter
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| like papercups thrown in the trash.
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| They’re crawling all along the sidewalks,
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| their wallets stuck in their pants.
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| And it comes over me like a mist rising,
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| a fog falling over a ship.
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| The bell is ringing out danger,
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| but it’s too late to cancel this trip.
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| I see the mist rising before me,
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| my hand reappears by my face.
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| By my waist a cold empty pocket,
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| on my wrist the tears from your face.
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| And I think of what I thought this cold morning,
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| it’s the same thing I’m thinking at three.
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| I owe more than I can ever pay back,
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| more than I’ll ever see.
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| I think of what I thought this cold morning,
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| I think of what I’m thinking at three.
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| At ten and at midnight the same damn thing,
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| I wish this debt was about money.
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| At ten and at midnight the same damn thing,
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| I wish this debt was about money. |