| I’ll drop you a postcard, I’ll pick up my pen
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| Miranda Street’s deserted, it’s winter again
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| Give me ten minutes and I’ll paint you a picture
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| Of holiday houses where the sun won’t shine
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| And the paint is peeling around the ‘vacancy' sign
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| And it’s winter forever, whatever the weather
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| And these are my autumn years
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| This is the town where the girl got run down
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| Pale sun in the pine trees, her golden hair on the ground
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| Her body crumpled and I was sick by the side of the road
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| The sun goes down on the town where the sun never rose
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| I’m waiting for December, I’m waiting for September
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| I’m waiting for the tide to come back in
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| Give me fifteen seconds and I’ll show you around
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| Where I end is where I begin
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| There’s nothing in between
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| Kicking a stone along Miranda Street
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| Stepping on cracks in the concrete
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| With a head full of loose change
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| And a pocket full of ideas
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| I could walk forever and never get out of here
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| This is the town where the girl got run down
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| And this is the town where the postman was drowned
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| And this is the town where that foundling was found
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| And the name round his neck was mine
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| How could it ever be so cold in summertime?
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| I’m too young to be so old in Summer Town |