| Ah little V is whistling on a tune
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| She’s coughing in the darkness of your room
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| She left your manhood leaning on a broom
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| Now you’re over in the land blind
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| And you’re all bruised and you’re leaning on your fast blues
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| Ah little V has got a careless lover
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| But she does not care to know if you’re thinking of her
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| She enters the new scene so thin and sober
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| Just when you care to put yourself to some use
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| She leaves you flicking on your fast blues
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| Ah little V is nowhere to be found
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| Ah you look for her, but she is not around
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| You listen with one ear to the ground
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| Even Pigeon Foot, the Indian, is here
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| But he has no news
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| He only knows the chords for a fast blues
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| Ah little V is calling on the phone
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| But she does not want you now that you’re alone
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| Ah talking in a dry and broken tone
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| It’s a tiny, little insult to your drunken groan
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| And your slow shoes — it’s an insult to your fast, fast blues! |