| I’m standing all alone out in the pouring rain
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| And though it really isn’t like me to complain
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| I think I’m getting used to it
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| I feel happy, and I also feel bad
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| I’ve never been here, but somehow I think I have
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| But I’m getting used to it
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| I’ve never been lost like this
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| I’ve never been lost like this
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| But I wouldn’t be happy anywhere else
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| Nobody to tell us what to do all by ourselves
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| Don’t know how I got here
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| And I don’t know why I stay
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| The poets all around are laughing in their graves
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| Must be something I said
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| This place is not like anything I’ve seen before
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| The spirits move around; |
| the houses have no doors
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| But I’m getting used to it
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| I’ve never been lost like this
|
| I’ve never been lost like this
|
| But I wouldn’t be happy anywhere else
|
| Nobody to tell us what to do all by ourselves
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| Isn’t this a fine hello?
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| I wish I hadn’t seen you go
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| It’s always been a bitter pill
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| The broken mirror’s broken still
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| The letters never made the post
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| A thousand more I never wrote
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| And here, on the dark, unfriendly streets
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| I find the comfort that I seek
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| And I’m happy, and I’ve been happy…
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| I’ve never been lost like this
|
| I’ve never been lost like this
|
| But I wouldn’t be happy anywhere else
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| Nobody to tell us what to do all by ourselves… |