| there’s pictures of her mother on the wall
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| and when she speaks, she don’t look at me at all
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| she likes to check the time now and then
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| and i start whistling cannonballs again
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| her old man sleeps till dark every day
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| then she cleans and puts the ashtrays away
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| i think that i could make her my friend
|
| but i’ve been whistling cannonballs again
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| and as she pulls her skirt above her knees
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| i’m thinking bad things always come in threes
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| and so it finished right where it began
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| and i went whistling cannonballs again
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| fragile like a teacup in a storm
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| sweet and tender like a nurse in uniform
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| but every time i here a violin
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| then i start whistling cannonballs again
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| so she curled up like a cat in the chair
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| with her fingers drawing circles in the air
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| stared me down and said «lets not pretend
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| that you weren’t whistling cannonballs again
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| and without a breath she made it pretty clear
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| that i should close the door and disappear
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| it’s been so long i don’t remember when
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| i started whistling cannonballs again
|
| it’s been so long i don’t remember when
|
| we started whistling cannonballs again |