| She said
|
| Come in my dear,
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| You’re looking tired tonight.
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| Your bath is drawn, let me loosen your tie
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| And fix you your usual drink.
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| He settles back,
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| Takes a magazine,
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| Kicks off his shoes, as he studies the form
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| Of every appealing soubrette.
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| But where are the flowers that he used to bring?
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| Every endearing remark
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| Reminds her of passionarte promises,
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| That he only made in the dark.
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| In her bed,
|
| She wants to shout at the back of his head
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| Look at me, look at me, look at me I’m afraid
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| See what it’s come to,
|
| I’m just your mistress and maid.
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| The wine is warm
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| But the dinner is cold.
|
| The look in his eye tells her it won’t be long
|
| 'Till the girls on the page come to life.
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| And they’ll get the flowers that he used to bring
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| With every endearing remark,
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| And all of the passionate promises
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| He’ll never fulfil in the dark.
|
| In their bed,
|
| She wants to shout at the back of his head
|
| Look at me, look at me, now that I’m not afraid.
|
| See what it’s come to,
|
| I’m not your mistress and maid.
|
| See what it’s come to,
|
| I’m not your mistress annf maid. |