| No one wrote a song for me
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| Just instrumental not too long
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| As sure as sure could ever be
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| You’d only get the lyrics wrong
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| No solo Chet Baker ever played
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| lowered me slowly to my grave
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| The prose that Keats and Yates would save
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| was for King and Queen not knave
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| I have no poem that describes my charm
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| No story told that’s short and sweet
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| I have no hymn, I have no psalm
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| This song I have it has no beat
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| Yes it has no beat
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| No tapping of feet
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| Yes it has no beat
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| Miles Davis played the black 'n' blues
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| Did he play for me to lose?
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| Cause just when round midnight falls
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| That tune’s not his it’s Kenny Ball’s
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| Now on that graveyard on that grave
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| On that tombstone in the shade
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| No poem written, no accolade
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| No «We loved you"ever sprayed
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| There’s just this feeling from that moss
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| When epitaph you cannot read
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| he must have lived it at budget cost
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| So he deserves to be beneath
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| All that William Robinson wrote
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| not one of my pluses did he portray
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| those lyrics stuck right down my throat
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| I never hit
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| It never hit
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| My hit parade |