| I used to live in New York City
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| Everything there was dark and dirty
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| Outside my window was a steeple
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| With a clock that always said «12:30»
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| Young girls are coming to the canyon
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| And in the mornings I can see them walking
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| I can no longer keep my blinds drawn
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| And I can’t keep myself from talking
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| At first so strange to feel so friendly
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| To say good morning and really mean it
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| To feel these changes happening in me
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| But not to notice till I feel it
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| Young girls are coming to the canyon
|
| And in the morning I can see them walking
|
| I can no longer keep my blinds drawn
|
| And I can’t keep myself from talking
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| Cloudy waters cast no reflection
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| Images of beauty lie there stagnant
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| Vibrations bounce in no direction
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| And lie there shattered into fragments
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| Young girls are coming to the canyon
|
| And in the morning I can see them walking
|
| I can no longer keep my blinds drawn
|
| And I can’t keep myself from talking |