| My, friends, I never really thought you’d go,
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| But, then, we know that’s the way it happens here.
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| Now time is like cat’s cradle in my hands:
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| We gather up the strands much to slowly
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| The refugees are gone… they take their separate paths,
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| Obliterate the past: figures in an ash shroud.
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| Susie, I guess you’re on your way to be a star,
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| But I don’t know where you are: the only time I seem
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| To see you is on T.V.
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| It’s so easy just to slip away…
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| Mike!
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| It’s a year or two since I’ve seen you…
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| I might
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| Have dropped you a line if I’d had time
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| Or the will.
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| It’s my fault too; |
| I play a hermit’s role
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| Of cars and stages, wages, supersoul
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| Hardly ever seem to get outside these days.
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| So, dear friends, as we grow on we feel to grow away,
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| Can only live in the hope that some day
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| It will all return.
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| It’s so easy just to slip away |