| There’s a picture of Jesus lying in his mother’s arms
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| Shuttered windows, cars humming on the street below
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| The fountain throbbed in the lobby of the Grand Hotel
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| We checked into room thirty-three, well well, well well
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| You were a runaway flake of snow
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| You were skinny and white as a wafer, yeah I know
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| Sitting on the edge of the bed clicking your shoes
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| I slid my little songs out from under you
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| And we all rose from our wonder
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| We would never admit defeat
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| And we leaned out of the window
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| As the rain fell on the street, on the street
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| They were just a sigh released from a dying star
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| They were runaway flakes of snow, yeah I know
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| They annexed your insides in a late night raid
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| We sent down for drinks and something to eat
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| The cars humming in the rain on the street below
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| A fountain throbs in the lobby of the Grand Hotel
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| A spurting font of creativity, yeah I know
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| Your head in a pool of your own streaming hair
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| And Jesus lying in his mother’s arms
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| Just so up on the wall, just so
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| And we all rose up from our wonder
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| We would never admit defeat
|
| And we leaned out of the window
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| And watched the horses in the street, in the street
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| In room thirty-three, yeah
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| Yeah, I know |