| For a chemical imbalance
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| You sure know how to ride a train
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| Your revolution is a deathbed
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| And the music is your maid
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| When someone comes a-knockin'
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| With a needle on a tray
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| Only your lonesome lies beside you
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| For you told me not to stay
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| You are somebody’s baby
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| Some mother held you near
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| No, it’s not important, they’re just pretty words, my dear
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| There is no distraction that can make me disappear
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| No, there’s nothing that won’t remind you
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| I will always be right here
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| And you spit the blood back
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| Spit the blood back, baby
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| I’m amazed that you’re alright
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| Oh, so long, prison boy
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| I won’t be home with you tonight
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| We’re both very sick, our muscles are worn down
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| It’s as if we are one-hundred, know I won’t still be around
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| Because I’ve fallen
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| Yes, I’ve fallen right into the love I’ve found
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| Long before I reach one-hundred
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| I’ll have fallen to the ground
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| And for generations, they’ll romance us, make us more
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| Or much less than ever was before
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| The Chelsea and the floor
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| Make us stand before the masses
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| Like two speakers for the poor
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| When there was no revolution
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| Nothing we were fighting for
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| And you spit the blood back
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| Spit the blood back, baby
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| I’m amazed that you’re alright
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| Oh, so long, prison boy
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| I won’t be home, I won’t be home
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| I won’t be home with you tonight
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| And you can call the service bell
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| When we stay at the Chelsea Hotel
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| And I’ll stay out of my own hell
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| Oh, so long, prison boy
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| I won’t be home, I won’t be home
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| I won’t be home with you tonight
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| Tonight |