| I know a girl with cuts on her legs
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| I think that she hates the way she was made
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| But we never spoke of why they were there
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| I just squeezed them and kissed them
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| Until we both felt a bit better
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| And now I’ve returned to the town where she dwells
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| That small lonely cabin her grandfather built
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| Suppose that’s where she’s imprisoned herself
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| To write all those words she’s too scared to tell
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| Those sad, short stories of a girl curled up in her shell
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| Night and day she tends to her bar
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| She pours the drinks, they pour out their hearts
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| All that sorrow and alcohol weighs hard on her thoughts
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| So she writes them down
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| She loves them all
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| And when we’d make love, she’d stare in my eyes
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| I swore we had met a thousand times
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| Thousands of lives
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| Thousands of nights
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| She’s written of it a thousand lines
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| Night and day she tends to her bar
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| She pours me a drink for my parched heart
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| All my sorrows in alcohol
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| She holds up the cup to my cracked lips
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| For a kiss |