| Are we to speak, first day of the week
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| Stumbling words at the bar
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| Beauty blue eyes, my order of fries
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| Long Island kindness and wine
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| Beloved of John, I get it all wrong
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| I read you for some kind of poem
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| Covered in lines, the fossils I find
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| Have they no life of their own?
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| So can we pretend, sweetly
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| Before the mystery ends?
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| I am a man with a heart that offends
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| With its lonely and greedy demands
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| There’s only a shadow of me; |
| in a matter of speaking, I’m dead
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| Such a waste, your beautiful face
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| Stumbling carpet arise
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| Go follow your gem, your white feathered friend
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| Icarus, point to the sun
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| If history speaks of two baby teeth
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| I’m painting the hills blue and red
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| They said beware, Lord, hear my prayer
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| I’ve wasted my throes on your head
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| So can we be friends, sweetly
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| Before the mystery ends?
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| I love you more than the world can contain
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| In its lonely and ramshackle head
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| There’s only a shadow of me; |
| in a matter of speaking, I’m dead
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| I’m holding my breath
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| My tongue on your chest
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| What can be said of my heart?
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| If history speaks, the kiss on my cheek
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| Where there remains but a mark
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| Beloved, my John, so I’ll carry on
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| Counting my cards down to one
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| And when I am dead, come visit my bed
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| My fossil is bright in the sun
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| So can we contend, peacefully
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| Before my history ends?
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| Jesus I need you, be near me, come shield me
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| From fossils that fall on my head
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| There’s only a shadow of me; |
| in a matter of speaking, I’m dead |