| The drunken lady of the morning
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| Stumbles down the street
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| And makes a joke of every tipsy minute
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| Her true love is the garbage man
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| He sweeps her off her feet
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| It’s not a perfect world but she is in it
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| She’d like to try to make the morning smile
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| Hold it to her breast a little while
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| Rockin' it to sleep just like a child
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| She feels her bones to be the stones
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| That pave the slippery street
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| She’d like to use a building for a bonnet
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| She wonders if the world will wait
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| So she can stand up straight;
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| It spins so fast she just can’t stand up on it
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| She’d like to use the magic in her mind
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| To turn the oil slick in the street to wine
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| Or polish a policeman’s eyes until they shine
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| The drunken lady of the morning mumbles as she swings
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| Her head’s so heavy she can barely life it
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| And smashing glass she curses at the bottle that she flings;
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| It’s not a perfect love but she sleeps with it
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| She’d like to try to make the morning cry
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| And tell the rising sun another lie
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| Or choke the light of day
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| Just like it was a spy
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| Feeling fine
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| Going blind
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| All mankind
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| Is divine |