| Another foggy night in hometown
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| Cruising the backstreet pubs with a friend or two
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| I guess we were laughing how we made it through the bad old days
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| When across the bar I caught a glimpse of you
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| Sometimes they ask me why I don’t sit with you
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| I guess they’ll never understand
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| I don’t need to have my heart broken another time
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| Or to have to shake your useless wasted hand
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| So tell me — what do you dream about?
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| And tell me — how do you shut it all out?
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| And how do you live with yourself now?
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| And I hope that she’s really happy now
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| Now she’s got her cake and she went and ate him too
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| Heads down, out on 47 Poison Street
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| With all the ghosts just sitting there with you
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| Beethoven — he was a deaf man
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| And Jesus Christ was a Jew
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| But of all those little twists of irony —
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| My favourite one is you
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| And if our eyes ever have to meet for more than just one second
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| Then if you weren’t already there, I would tell you to go to hell
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| But if I spent my whole damn life trying to think of a curse for you
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| It would never be as bad as the curse that you dealt to yourself
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| So tell me — what do you dream about?
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| And tell me — how do you shut it all out?
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| And how do you live with yourself now?
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| What do you dream about?
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| And how the hell do you shut it all out?
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| And what do you feel about it now? |