| Ever since you were a little boy
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| You use to think to yourself
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| That the mysterious ways a common life
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| Was a commotion riding with a baby boom
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| And every now and then you saw faces with a smile
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| And by the pillow of slow decay
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| You could taste the sweetness of the grenadine smeared upon your bed
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| There was a time
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| When you were nine
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| You had those long and shady curls
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| Now you are bald
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| And way to old
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| To play among the girls
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| Mannequins in perforated petticoats
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| In taffetas of satin hoop crinoline
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| The puppeteers are working on your midlife Capri pants
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| And tricel scarves in pastel greens but the restless walk in his jeans
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| You never were as pretty as Ronny from the gym
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| He had a hammer for a head and a shovel for a fist
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| And a face of a mutilation talking just like Citizen Kane (Come on, everybody!)
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| Now brady boys and rubber dolls, razorblades and barbie bones
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| Saturdays tangled up in purple cymbelines from a wedding
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| Are lying in your bed for those long bitter days
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| Nothing ever turned out like you wanted
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| But you know the times are changing
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| You’re 29, past your prime
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| And now they’re gone |