| Bad news on her doorstep
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| She doesn’t need to lie, she doesn’t need her conscience
|
| Misused by her bad, bad mess
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| It’s time to draw the shade, it’s time to stop the madness
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| With the moon up above and the stars in the palm of her hand
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| So she drifts far away to a place only she’ll understand, yeah
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| She don’t like what she hears
|
| She don’t like what she sees
|
| In this she can believe
|
| So she’s slipping into fiction
|
| She don’t like what she hears
|
| She don’t like what she sees
|
| In this she can believe
|
| So she’s slipping, slipping into fiction
|
| Bad news knocks her door down
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| She’s tired of all those cold, cold nights so lonely
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| Blue skies and green waters
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| They don’t exist she’s a world away from all that now
|
| With the moon up above she drifts far away in the night
|
| She don’t like what she hears
|
| She don’t like what she sees
|
| In this she can believe
|
| So she’s slipping into fiction
|
| She don’t like what she hears
|
| She don’t like what she sees
|
| In this she can believe
|
| So she’s slipping, slipping into fiction |