| Always at the foot of the photograph
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| That’s me there, snug as a thug
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| In a mugshot pose, a foul-mouthed rogue
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| Owner of this corner and not much more
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| Still these days I’m better placed
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| To get my just rewards
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| I’ll pound out a tune and very soon
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| I’ll have too much to say and a dead stupid name
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| And though I ought to be learning I feel like a veteran
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| Of «oh, I like your poetry but I hate your poems»
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| Calendars crumble, I’m knee deep in numbers
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| I’ve turned 21, I’ve twist, I’m bust and wrong again
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| Rubbing shoulders with the sheets till two
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| Looking at my watch and I’m half-past caring
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| In the lap of luxury, it comes to mind
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| Is this headboard hard? |
| Am I a lap behind?
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| But to face doom in a sock-stenched room
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| All by myself
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| Is the kind of fate I never contemplate
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| Lots of people would cry, though none spring to mind
|
| And though I ought to be learning I feel like a veteran
|
| Of «oh, I like your poetry but I hate your poems»
|
| Calendars crumble, I’m knee deep in numbers
|
| I’ve turned 21, I’ve twist, I’m bust and wrong again
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| Know what it’s like to sigh at the sight
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| Of the first quarter of life?
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| Ever stopped to think and found out nothing was there?
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| They laugh to see such fun
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| I’m playing blind man’s bluff all by myself
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| And they’re chanting a line from a nursery rhyme
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| «Ba ba bleary eyes — have you any idea?»
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| Years of learning I must be a veteran
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| Of «oh, I like your poetry but I hate your poems»
|
| And the calendar’s cluttered with days that are numbered
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| I’ve turned 21, I’ve twist, I’m bust and wrong again
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| (Ought to be learning)
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| Twist, I’m bust and wrong again
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| (Feel like a veteran)
|
| Twist, I’m bust and wrong again
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| (Calendar's cluttered)
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| With (days that are numbered)
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| Ooh, and I know what it’s like to sigh at the sight
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| Of the first quarter of life
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| I know what it’s like |