| I woke early one day after a restless night
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| I watched the stars burst and fill the morning sky with light
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| In my hazy daze I noticed something on my bedroom floor
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| It was an envelope I don’t think I had seen before
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| I opened it with caution and in it did reside
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| A map and a note that said «join me inside»
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| I had nothing to do that day outside of my head
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| So I decided to just follow and see where it led
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| It led me to a door, grabbed the handle and used it
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| Stood before me was the physical embodiment of music
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| I could barely believe my eyes, she was a sepia goddess
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| Every contour was perfection and her demeanour was modest
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| Even armed with all this beauty she was in no way belittling
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| I’d liken her body to the opening riff from Little Wing
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| Her eyes burned deep with the passion of a nameless chain gang
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| And lips smart with the vibe of Son of a Preacher Man
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| She told me she had evolved over time
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| We sauntered into her room room with just a bed and some wine
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| We talked for hours about the things she’s seen and done but not boasting
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| We passed the Zinfandel, raised the glass and just toasting
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| We had a meeting of minds, she breathed life in this old brain
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| She was the milk in my Kahlúa, I was the Hartman to her Coltrane
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| Showed me scars she had acquired each time a genius would depart
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| Jimi Hendrix on her left hand, Johnny Cash on her heart
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| Different fingers, Mingus, Davis and her leg scarred for Elvis
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| Ray Charles on her eyelids, Jim Morrison on her pelvis
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| Then she asked about me and my musical stylings
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| All the things in life I found somewhat inspiring
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| I paused, and smiled the wine making me feel quite cocky
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| Feeling whatever I said she would take in, and not mock me
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| I said I’m a wordsmith and artist, I’m deep like the TARDIS
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| Every time I aim for something I’m gonna hit the target
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| She joked: «Gangster rap?»; |
| I said «No, but drop the 'g',
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| You might start to get a better description of me.»
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| «Angster rap?» |
| she said. |
| «If it sticks you’ll regret that,
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| The most appalling moniker since the dawn of Dan le Sac.»
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| She was a sepia goddess, yeah, her demeanour was modest
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| Her hair was wild like the darkest deepest of forests
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| Many before me had fallen at her feet and died
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| But then I made a connection and she let me inside
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| She was a sepia goddess, yeah, her demeanour was modest
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| Hair was wild like the darkest deepest of forests
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| Many before me had fallen at her feet and died
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| But then I made a connection and she let me inside
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| I continue: «Some of these clothes are looking old just like my jaded character
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| Who thinks like I’m abroad but sometimes I act like an amateur
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| This hat’s an old classic in the first stage of dilapidation
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| It’s a fair evaluation that it’s making this equation a little
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| Top-heavy, if you know what I mean
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| 'Cause there’s a fine line between a classic and a has-been.»
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| As I finished that sentence I noticed the sadness in her eyes
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| This moved me, left my mind wondering why
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| As we lay there she buried her head in my chest
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| I wrapped my arms around her, stroked her with the sweetest caress
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| Said she’d grown sick and tired of the same shit
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| I said if there was anything in the world I could do, she should name it
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| I wanted to find the right line that could make her sad head lift
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| Wanted a chance to breathe life back into music like redshift
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| She said sit in public places and quietly observe
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| All of the speeches, mannerisms, every action and word
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| When something inspires me to concentrate on that thing
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| Get a pen and pad and then produce a vocal offering
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| She said «bring the lost art of conversation back
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| I’m sick to death of awkward silences and all that crap
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| It’s time to talk to one another, share your thoughts and facts
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| Learn the more of it you give, the more you get right back»
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| I looked her in the eyes and said I’d do what I could
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| Then she held my head and kissed me but not like a lover would
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| But then, it also wasn’t like a close friend or relative
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| Instead of exciting it was calming like a spiritual sedative
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| And then we lay there until I woke in an empty room
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| If I couldn’t still smell her skin I’d be inclined to assume
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| That I’d dreamt the whole thing, but I knew that I hadn’t
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| And I’d seen the perfect balance of beauty and talent
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| After a moment of reflection I rose to my feet
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| Opened the door with squinted eyes and stepped back into the street
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| I kind of staggered home and got out a pen as she’d said
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| I wrote down my inspiration and here’s what it read:
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| She was a sepia goddess, yeah, her demeanour was modest
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| Hair was wild like the darkest deepest of forests
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| Many before me had fallen at her feet and died
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| But that night I made a connection and she let me inside
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| She was a sepia goddess, yeah, her demeanour was modest
|
| Hair was wild like the darkest deepest of forests
|
| Many before me had fallen at her feet and died
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| But that night I made a connection and she let me inside |