| I was sick with that old Margaret, for four years, near about
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| Young, dumb and dumbstruck when Margie, she blew my candle out
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| I’ve got to have me a partner if I’m to sell it all
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| Save the mirror I look best in, in the back of that dirty hall
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| Stare through the beers and year and the bags and bruises fade
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| Those grim lines turn sharp and fine, like laws the pilgrim laid
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| Beaming through all the brag and cuss, promising the fall
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| At the mirror I look best in, in the back of that dirty hall
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| Soak up their mislaid luck and the floor is a pond of piss
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| The brown glass throws a face back, wondering how it came to this
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| Something about being there at last makes a man stand tall
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| That’s the mirror I look best in, in the back of that dirty hall
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| I can’t take up another drink and fight them now no more
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| They’re all moving, you’re one of them, through that Old Holland door
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| I’m wishing for a pardon through hoarse and hungry calls
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| Towards the mirror I look best in, in the back of this dirty hall |