| Traffic lights are changing in the distance
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| The radio plays Brahms
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| Opening the door of his Fiesta the ventriloquist
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| Steps out into the air beneath the stars
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| Rubs his hands against the frost
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| And tucks the dummy in her case beneath his arm
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| Ventriloquists and dolls
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| Tailors and their dummies
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| Moving in parallel worlds
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| Like wolves and little girls
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| Gangsters and their molls
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| Ventriloquists and dolls
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| And slowly on his painful wooden leg the ventriloquist
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| Clumps up the wooden steps towards his flat
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| A single room filled up with mannequins
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| And dangling from the beams on tangled strings, a marionette
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| And his carving’s been so painstaking it looks for all the world
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| Like flesh and blood
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| Realistic to a fault, his dolls are portraits carved in wood
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| Of little girls
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| And opening the bottle with his teeth
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| He pours the beer into the beerglass on the bed
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| Drinks it at a gulp, brings up the gas
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| Takes off his pants, unscrews his wooden leg
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| And though his face is frighteningly ugly and he takes her by surprise and very
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| fast
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| The doll he crushes under him immediately agrees to everything he asks |