| On Tuesday she used to do yoga,
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| while I’d sit and watch the box
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| in a vegetable way
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| but always ready to say
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| to myself that I was an artist
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| implying that she was not.
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| It’s funny the way that self-pity
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| can take over from self-esteem —
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| well, I was the prince of pride,
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| and though I’d cheat I never lied,
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| as if that were enough to make her happy,
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| as if that could satisfy her dreams.
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| Too late now to say that I’m so sorry,
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| too late to say that I can change and mend
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| the things that hurt… she didn’t need to worry,
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| she always knew I’d get there in the end.
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| Now I’m tying myself up in contortions,
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| don’t know if yoha will do me any good.
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| It’s about time I tried, though I’d rather be inside
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| from the cold, studing tantra —
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| still, I never did that when I could.
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| I never did the things that really mattered,
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| there seemes to be some key I couldn’t find
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| to unlock myself;
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| I could have done it with her help,
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| but I was to busy scrabbling for each moment —
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| now I don’t know what I did with all the time.
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| Sometimes I’d play the wild rover
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| sometimes I’d just get smashed all day…
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| on Tuesday she used to do yoga,
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| on Tuesday she went away. |