| Well I wake up in the morning
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| And I can’t get out of bed
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| You’re lying in there with me
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| We stay put instead
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| I grind the beans, squeeze the juice
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| And butter up the toast
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| That takes about an hour
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| Ninety minutes at the most
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| I like my breakfast in my bed
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| I could use a bite
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| Just pick up where you left off
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| On my shoulder late last night
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| I mean to say I’m hungry
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| But it’s not for food
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| When I’m on your empty stomach
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| It must mean I’m in the mood
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| Just a couple of consumers
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| Every morning me and you
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| We keep consummating
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| What else is there to do?
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| We hardly go out any more
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| Mostly we stay in
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| All I do these days is you
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| Baby that’s no sin
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| I go down for a newspaper
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| And to see if there’s some post
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| I always wear my dressing gown
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| I don’t want to boast
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| But I give you some good news
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| Every morning without fail
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| Then I drop that dressing gown
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| I give you your mail
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| The ruckus that we’re making
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| It’s amazing I’m afraid
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| We’re making out all of the time
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| The bed never gets made
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| The phone rings, we don’t answer it
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| Callers become enraged
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| The message on the machine
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| Says we’re practically engaged
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| In bed like John and Yoko
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| We’re giving peace a chance
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| All that we are saying is «where's my underpants?»
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| After breakfast we get antsy
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| Then we start to slouch
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| We head for the loving room
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| Let’s do lunch on the couch
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| Do lunch on the couch |