| I’m late again, I hope that she won’t be too cold
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| Sitting on her ornamental wall
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| And when I’m late she doesn’t care
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| She’s absolutely maybe there
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| A contradiction asking her to call
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| Calling from the memories of a child she left behind
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| A playground full of tacky clubs and bars
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| Entertaining lookers-on with side-shows from her mind
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| But then it doesn’t take a mind to see
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| The girl was you, the child was me
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| In a certain situation
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| With a certain fascination
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| When I look at you, I ask the question why
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| When I’m talking to myself I have to lie
|
| She keeps a note of people who look out for her
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| And maybe from her book she lost a page
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| A drink or two before she picks the phone up for the evening
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| And then begins the self destructive stage
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| Picking fights and arguments with strangers at the door
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| Good arguments these days are hard to find
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| Angry at herself and then unable to unwind
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| So she tries to call him late at night
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| For everything to be all right
|
| In a certain situation
|
| With a certain fascination
|
| When I look at you, I ask the question why
|
| When I’m talking to myself I have to lie
|
| People say, you like to play
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| You flirt with danger everyday
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| Your only thought is keeping up with time
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| They could be right, they could be wrong
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| They could be jealous all along
|
| And maybe there’s a place in time
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| Where you feel good and I feel fine
|
| In a certain situation
|
| With a certain fascination
|
| When I look at you, I ask the question why
|
| When I’m talking to myself I have to lie
|
| In a certain situation
|
| With a certain fascination
|
| When I look at you, I ask the question why
|
| When I’m talking to myself I have to lie |