| Life is what you make it
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| As someone once observed
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| A phrase the sounds a trifle glib
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| But whoever thought it out had clearly never sorted out
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| The vexing problem of Adam’s spare rib
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| Chastity, I take it
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| Is specially reserved
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| For those possessing moral fibres
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| Mine fail me all the time
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| And maybe that’s the reason I’m
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| A Baa Baa Black Sheep calling all subscribers
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| Time and again
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| I’m tortured with contrition
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| And swear that I’m sorry I’ve sinned
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| Then when I’ve got the whole thing sewn up
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| I must own up
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| Everything gets blown up
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| Freud could explain my curious condition
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| And Jung would have certainly grinned
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| When I meet some sly dish
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| That looks like my dish
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| I’m sunk, drunk, gone with the wind
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| How can I start afresh
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| When the sins of the flesh override me
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| Maybe some some psycho-analyst
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| Might slap my wrist
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| And give a twist
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| To what goes on inside me
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| If I could feign
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| The glandular transition
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| I’d settle for taking the Veil
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| Time and again I try
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| Time and again I fail
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| Moralists disparage
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| A variable heart
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| And say that it should be fenced in
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| But they never think about
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| Effective means of casting out
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| That dear old die-hard original sin
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| Table d’hôte is marriage
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| Free love is à la carte
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| And once you’ve crossed forbidden fruits off
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| You merely find that you’ve
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| Unwittingly set out to prove
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| The age old saying «better with your boots off!»
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| Time and again
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| I’ve tried to form a credo
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| But some how I don’t seem to learn
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| Just when I think my guardian angel’s winning
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| I go spinning
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| Back to the beginning
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| I can’t refrain from firing a torpedo
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| Abaft or ahead or astern
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| If I hit my quarry
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| I can’t feel sorry
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| I’m hooked cooked done to a turn
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| Though I frequently wish
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| I could curb my conditioned reflexes
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| I’ll be damned if I’ll sacrifice
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| Sugar and spice
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| To be precise nothing as nice as sex is
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| I can’t restrain my lecherous libido
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| From slipping and tipping the scale
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| Time and again I try
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| Time and again I fail |