| I know Seymour’s the greatest
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| But I’m dating a semi-sadist
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| So I’ve got a black eye
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| And my arm’s in a cast
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| Still, that Seymour’s a cutie
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| Well, if not, he’s got inner beauty
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| And I dream of a place
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| Where we could be together at last
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| And what kind of place is that, honey? | 
| An emergency room?
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| Oh, no. | 
| It’s just a day dream of mine
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| A little development I dream of, just off the interstate
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| Not fancy, like Levittown
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| Just a little street, in a little suburb, far far from urban Skid Row
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| Oh, I dream about it all the time
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| Just me, and the toaster, and a sweet little guy…
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| Like Seymour
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| (sung)
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| A matchbox of our own
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| A fence of real chain link
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| A grill out on the patio
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| Disposal in the sink
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| A washer and a dryer and
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| An ironing machine
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| In a tract house that we share
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| Somewhere that’s green
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| He rakes and trims the grass
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| He loves to mow and weed
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| I cook like Betty Crocker
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| And I look like Donna Reed
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| There’s plastic on the furniture
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| To keep it neat and clean
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| In the Pine-Sol scented air
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| Somewhere that’s green
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| Between our frozen dinner
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| And our bed-time: nine-fifteen
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| We snuggle watching Lucy
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| On our big, enormous
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| Twelve-inch screen
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| I’m his December Bride
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| He’s father, he knows best
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| The kids play Howdy Doody
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| As the sun sets in the west
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| A picture out of Better Homes
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| And Gardens Magazine
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| Far from Skid Row
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| I dream we’ll go
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| Somewhere that’s… green |