| At number fifty-six, seven, eight, nine, it doesn’t matter
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| If a well known secrets to you, if you knock on the door
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| First once, then three more knocks, you’re let inside
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| Alone, sometimes even not alone
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| A maid without saying a word walks in front of you
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| With stairs in this hall ways, come on after another
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| Decorated with baroque bronzes, golden angels
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| Aphrodites and silent maces
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| If it’s not already occupied, say that you want the forty-four
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| It’s the room that here they call Cleopatras
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| And columns of its bed standing watch rococo style
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| Statues holding torches gaze benin
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| And between these slaves naked carved in ebony
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| Who will be the silent witnesses of this scene
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| While above a mirror reflects us
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| Slowly I miss my melody
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| Melody
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| Melody
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| Melody |