| She cooks you sweet potato, you don’t like aubergine
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| She knows to boil the kettle when you hum bars from Grease
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| She senses you are lonely but still she can’t be sure
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| And so she stands and waits, stands anticipating your thoughts
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| How can she become the psychic
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| That she longs to be to understand you
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| How can she become the psychic
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| That she longs to be to understand you
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| He brushes thoroughly
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| He knows she likes fresh breath
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| He rushes to the station
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| He waits atop the steps
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| He’s brought with him a Mars bar
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| She will not buy Nestlé
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| And later he’ll perform
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| A love-lorn serenade, a trade
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| How can he become the psychic
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| That he longs to be to understand you
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| How can he become the psychic
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| That he longs to be to understand you
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| So give her information to help her fill the holes
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| Give an ounce of power so he does not feel controlled
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| Help her to acknowledge the pain that you are in
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| Give to him a glimpse of that beneath your skin
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| Now my inner dialogue is heaving with detest
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| I am a martyr and a victim and I need to be caressed
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| I hate that you negate me, I’m a ghost at beck and call
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| I’m fading and placating, berate myself for staying
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| I’m a fool
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| I’m a fool
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| He greets the stranger meekly, a thing that she accepts
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| She sees him waiting often with chocolate on the steps
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| He senses she is lonely she’s glad they finally met
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| They take each other’s hands walk into the sunset
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| Do you like sweet potato? |