| Pacing through the flickering light
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| A velvet patch upon his eye
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| His pacing creaks the floorboards loose
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| As he tailors his thoughts for the truth around truths
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| But his butler keeps eyes through a hole in the door
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| What the butler don’t see ain’t a lot that’s for sure
|
| Francesca lays across the couch
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| They fight with words from mouth to mouth
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| And then with handfuls of her flesh
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| See how the zipper broke off of her dress
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| Strangling her neck with his hands in her gloves
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| The port and the brandy mix cocktails of love
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| The porchlight, the torchlight
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| The frosted morning lawn
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| The cloak of daylight has finally been drawn
|
| On the tale of what the butler saw
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| He kept his world all to himself
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| And locked it tight inside his belt
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| But she preferred his belt undone
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| She bathed in his fortune but never his fun
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| He cracked on a mixture of opera and drink
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| The butler still fetches and carries for him
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| The butler dragged down to the lake
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| Francesca’s body in a cape
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| No private eye was gonna trace this
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| The old man was shaking, his marbles were missed
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| The shadows and footprints and flickering lights
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| The butler’s up late with a cold in his eye
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| The porchlight the torchlight the frosted morning lawn
|
| The cloak of daylight has finally been drawn
|
| On the tale of what the butler saw |