| On promenades where drunks propose to lonely arcade mannequins
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| Where ceremonies pause at the jeweller’s shop display
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| Feigning casual silence in strained romantic interludes
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| Till they commit themselves to the muted journey home
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| And the pool player rests on another cue
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| Last nights hero picking up his dues
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| A honeymoon gambled on a ricochet
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| She’s staring at the brochures at the holidays
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| Chalking up a name in your hometown
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| Standing all your mates to another round
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| Laughing at the world till the barman wipes away
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| The warm wet circles
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| I saw teenage girls like gaudy moths a classroom’s shabby butterflies
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| Flirt in the glow of stranded telephone boxes
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| Planning white lace weddings from smeared hearts
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| And token proclamations, rolled from stolen lipsticks
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| Across the razored webs of glass
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| Sharing cigarettes with experience with her giggling
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| Jealous confidantes, she faithfully traces his name
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| With quick bitten fingers
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| Through the tears of condensation that’ll cry through the night
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| As the glancing headlights of the last bus kiss adolescence goodbye
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| In a warm wet circle
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| Like a mother’s kiss on your first broken heart, a warm wet circle
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| Like a bullethole in central park, a warm wet circle
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| And I’ll always surrender to the warm wet circles
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| She nervously undressed in the dancing beams of the fidra lighthouse
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| Giving it all away before it’s too late
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| She’ll let a lover’s tongue move in a warm wet circle
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| Giving it all away and showing no shame
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| She’ll take a mother’s kiss on her first broken heart
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| A warm wet circle, she’ll realise that she plays her part in a warm wet circle |