| I was walking down Dean Street, headed nowhere at all
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| Aimlessly strolling through Soho, when the rain began to fall
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| Alright nutty boy she said, passing me on Dean Street
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| She’s striding through the puddles, on black stilettoed feet
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| Guitar over one shoulder, swirling swagger in her stride
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| In a well-appointed pencil skirt, that maybe, just maybe 18 inches wide
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| The voice of fallen angels
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| Lost lovers in the night
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| A blackbird on the wing
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| Now only fallen angels sing
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| She looked back at me and smiled
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| She winked one deep black mascara eye
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| Well I narrowly missed the lamppost
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| As I made to make my reply
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| A black taxi splashes diesel rainbows through the neon air
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| Behind fishnet stocking by hydraulic derriere
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| The voice of fallen angels
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| Lost lovers in the night
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| A blackbird on the wing
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| Now only fallen angels sing
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| That guitar over one shoulder
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| Just a glimpse of pink La Pearla Bra
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| Glowing in the mist round Wanny Scots
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| There she goes, c’est la trois trois
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| We briefly faced each other, then she turned and walked away
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| And the rain lashed down on Dean Street, on that black and mournful day, hey
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| The voice of fallen angels
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| Lost lovers in the night
|
| A blackbird on the wing
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| Now only fallen angels sing, sing
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| The voice of fallen angels
|
| Lost lovers in the night
|
| A blackbird on the wing
|
| Only fallen angels sing
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| A blackbird on the wing
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| Only fallen angels sing
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| Fallen angels sing
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| Fallen angels sing
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| Fallen angels sing |