| I worked for future salary the nightshift
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| In Spalding Street. |
| The respect is worth it
|
| 1.AM at the front gate it had just been
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| Sunday night stood this man, tall and twisted back
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| He spoke loud and said Come out of there that
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| Grill on the wall contains a crowd and
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| That twisted shape you call the laundry
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| Post reminds me of my origin
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| Your criss-crossed fences are avenues
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| Paid for by the NHS, you need it more than
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| The patients for mortgage fees and medical pranks
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| But you won’t fix my quartz chip
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| Or repair my broken kind
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| Kindness borne of mousey brain
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| Twisted with kin of bitter world
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| Vicious dreams of EC1
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| And lapland girls and green purse
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| With tall and chaste inducements (*?pronounced inductments?*)
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| The porter went to move the man
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| And we got back to practice time
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| But his hands went through the man
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| He was made up of liquid pitch
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| His legs two propeller sticks
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| Crisscrossed fence posts were his eyes
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| His mouth red like a twisted reich
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| His mouth like a twisted knife
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| He wreaked of bleach and hospitals
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| He wreaked of bleach and hospitals
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| The porter swears this is true
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| He wreaked of bleach and hospitals
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| The porter swears this is true
|
| And drinks too much in his brown and white hut
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| But the thing clings to the acceptance gate
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| The thing clings to the acceptance gate
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| The thing clings to the acceptance gate
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| The thing clings to the medical acceptance gate
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| And nobody says he’s seen it
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| It only bounces young MDs
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| We are dedicated to fight disease
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| To fight disease
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| Disease
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| Disease |