| I never wanted to die old,
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| But it’s too late now,
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| My heart has grown so cold.
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| And the corpse I leave behind
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| Ain’t gonna be,
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| No pretty boy
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| It’s a sick sack of disease.
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| We thought about
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| Ways we’d love to go.
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| High and beautiful,
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| And fucking in the snow.
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| On New Years Day or Christmas Eve,
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| On a warm November night buried beneath the orange leaves.
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| It’s a few dreams on the ways that we could leave.
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| My heart got kicked out of all its homes,
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| And dying young just didn’t work and so I guess I’m dying old
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| And there ain’t nowhere left to go,
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| 'Cause all my loves would rather be alone.
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| And yesterday I woke up to find,
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| The black in my beard had turn to white.
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| And the pretty girls that used to smile at me,
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| Just stared off straight ahead or looked down at their feet.
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| So tonight I’ll sit up here
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| With these street lights and these seventeen beers.
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| Straight from the page of a teenage diary,
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| Underneath these shitty stars like I was seventeen.
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| (I mean)
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| That my heart got kicked out of all its homes,
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| And dying young just didn’t work and so I guess I’m dying old
|
| And there ain’t nowhere left to go,
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| 'Cause all my loves would rather be alone.
|
| And there ain’t nowhere left to go,
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| 'Cause all my loves would rather be alone. |