| Was it a huntsman or a player
|
| That made you pay the cost
|
| That now assumes relaxed positions
|
| And prostitutes your loss?
|
| Were you tortured by your own thirst
|
| In those pleasures that you seek
|
| That made you Tom the curious
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| That makes you James the weak?
|
| And you claim you got something going
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| Something you call unique
|
| But I’ve seen your self-pity showing
|
| As the tears rolled down your cheeks
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| Soon you know I’ll leave you
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| And I’ll never look behind
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| 'Cos I was born for the purpose
|
| That crucifies your mind
|
| So con, convince your mirror
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| As you’ve always done before
|
| Giving substance to shadows
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| Giving substance ever more
|
| And you assume you got something to offer
|
| Secrets shiny and new
|
| But how much of you is repetition
|
| That you didn’t whisper to him too |