| Piccadilly Circus in the bed of night
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| Just passing time beneath the lights
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| Up in town and all alone
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| Got no business so minds his own
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| The hotel room is lonely and cold
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| He might as well go for a stroll
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| Idly looking in a hi-fi shop
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| Footsteps, a chuckle and one hard slap
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| And they didn’t even see his face
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| See him flinch or hear him groan
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| They didn’t even see his eyes
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| One mean blow and on they ran
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| He put his fingers to his side
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| And felt his flesh was open wide
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| He felt the rent the blow had made
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| For the hand that fell had held a blade
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| And they didn’t even see his face
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| See him stumble, hear his cry
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| They didn’t even see his eyes
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| Just lashed out in passing by
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| What can it mean?
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| Who can makes some sense of that?
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| Did it mean a thing to them?
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| What can make a mind like that?
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| Though forty stitches helped him over
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| Who can live life over his shoulder?
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| He tried to put it in his past
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| And flew safe home back to Belfast
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| And they didn’t see his face
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| See him stagger watch him fall
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| They didn’t even see his eyes
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| They never knew him at all
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| Never knew him, tried to kill him
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| Never knew him, tried to kill him |