| Coming through the filter, sweet upon my lips
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| The smoke mollifies the lung into which it rips
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| In a sunlit tavern, in a corner booth
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| Sucking stale popcorn, there I met dear Ruth
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| She’d only just lost the baby, seven months and a week
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| Drank a month of Seagrams, kissed me on the cheek
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| Never would’ve been my style
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| But I could spot it from a mile
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| That it would mean a world of good
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| If we got friendly for a while
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| O what a dear my dear girl might have been
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| In my nine dollar room, there was nothing on TV
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| She asked if she could use my toothbrush, «It don’t bother me.»
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| «I thank you for the company» she most solemnly said
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| When I woke the next morning, she had fallen from the bed
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| Quite a sight I have to say
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| Where once had blossomed a bouquet
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| Now all but wilting like a leaf
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| In the ruthless light of day
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| O what a dear my dear girl might have been
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| Ruth, sweet girl, there’s no place for you
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| Here in my little nine dollar room |