| We’ve never been much chop
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| At all that sensual stuff
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| One of us always seems to stop
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| Before the other’s had enough
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| Like a self-help manual that’s been written in Braille
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| It seems the more that we touch
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| The more we learn about our failings
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| I’m struck speechless by the nape of your neck
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| But your requests and suggestions
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| Have a similar effect
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| A litany of prettiness and pettiness, too
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| I reckon every second second
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| We come up with something new
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| I tried to write an opera for us But I didn’t get that far
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| 'Cause trying to sum you up in song
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| Is like catching sunlight in a jar
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| Complex, completely credible love
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| The kind that is made, not handed to you from above
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| Is difficult to talk about and harder to write
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| Like the rhythm of a pulse, or the contours of firelight
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| Overblown libretto and a sumptuous score
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| Could never contain the contradictions I adore
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| We can just be chaos and then something aligns
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| It’s so hard to contain, maintain it or define it I tried to write another chorus
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| But I didn’t get that far
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| 'Cause trying to sum you up in song
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| Is like catching sunlight in a jar
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| It’s like catching sunlight in a jar |