| A black and white photograph
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| Of me up the garden path
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| Wrapped up in my football scarf
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| It sits here in my hand
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| And there mother smothered me
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| And how she would mother me
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| She knew how to suffer me
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| Like all mothers can
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| Now she is everywhere
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| The comb that runs through my hair
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| My posture on a chair
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| But that’s not who I am
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| He ran from the arguments
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| And sat on the garden fence
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| And lived in the passing tense
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| That fell from her lips
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| He tended the house so well
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| And each time she rang his bell
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| He’d climb back from where he fell
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| And gathered his wits
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| Now I fear the mold is mine
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| A vibration shakes my spine
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| As I walk the crooked line
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| Reality hits
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| So let me walk free from you
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| You know that you want me to
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| Let me try something new
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| Let me walk away
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| If it’s not one thing it’s your mother
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| How I love her
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| How I love her
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| How I love her
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| But it’s not so easy to say
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| Please won’t you let me walk away
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| Let me walk away
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| Let me walk away
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| So let me walk on my own
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| And finish my ice cream cone
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| If we are to make it home
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| Then all will be well
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| Look see I’m a father now
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| I’m raising my own eyebrow
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| And being in my own row
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| And making life hell
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| This is me, see here I am
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| Doing the best that I can
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| This life has a subtle plan
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| But you couldn’t tell |