| You take the stage, you’re at your best
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| They’ve hushed the stalls at your behest
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| You start your act, you sing your songs
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| The house is packed, they sing along
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| You seem, they say, so very gay
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| The vaudevillian, one in a million
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| The girls you’ve loved, the times you’ve known
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| The wars you lost, that old trombone
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| And now the lines that crease your face
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| Are wet with tears and hot with grease
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| You know your lines, but God knows what they are
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| The vaudevillian, one in a million
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| You’re out of date, they’ve changed the styles
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| They love to hate, they hate to smile
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| They start to stamp, they start to boo
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| You’re some old man, they don’t know who
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| You’ve lost your shape, you’ve lost your «you»
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| The vaudevillian, one in a million
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| A coffin now appears, it’s very strange
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| They’ve put it here up on the stage
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| They push you in, the trim is plush
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| It’s very grim, away you’re rushed
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| And some lament while others disinfect
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| The vaudevillian
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| And now you take a little nap
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| And when you wake the stars are black
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| And God is dead and there’s this smell
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| And you’re not feeling very well
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| It seems you’re dead, oh bloody hell!
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| The vaudevillian, one in a million |