| Downstairs it’s dark most of the time
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| And it’s a mess
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| The air is stale with the smell of wine
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| And cigarettes
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| She says she’ll clean it up sometime
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| But she forgets
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| She paints her nails and draws the blinds
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| I draw a deeper breath
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| And downstairs she says
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| «I swear I’ll cut off all my hair»
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| And every night’s the night before
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| Alter a while
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| A breakfast bowl on the bathroom floor
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| A broken tile
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| Red-eyed she stumbles through the door
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| She doesn’t smile
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| And neither do I
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| And this is where I live
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| But I know she’s on her own
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| This is not my home
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| Upstairs it’s a different story
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| Every day’s like Sunday morning
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| And the sun begins to shine
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| There’s a tree outside my window
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| Brilliant green and golden yellow
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| And that happiness is mine
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| I’m fine |