| The lady does the best that she can
|
| But she can’t touch the pillars of state
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| I love the honesty her talent demands
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| The way she insists on saying
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| But that lady throbs between two lives
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| Eventually she takes the time to beautify
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| With blood-red dyes and drive out on the town
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| The artist in the idiot’s clothes
|
| You know the way they go
|
| They go down, they drown
|
| They go down, they drown
|
| They go down, they drown
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| And that guy reads and tries to write
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| And talks until he bores you
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| He wants to know all the secrets of soul
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| He hasn’t got a shit show
|
| And he jumps the band-wagon before it’s too late
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| With a head full of crap
|
| And he never loves, he never hates
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| He doesn’t write, he imitates — he’s a clown
|
| The artist in the idiot’s clothes
|
| You know the way they go
|
| They go down, they drown
|
| They go down, they drown
|
| They go down, they drown
|
| Boredom…
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| Oh captain is it time?
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| We must be under way, hey
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| Raise the anchor, world-weary sail away, hey hey
|
| But Death, can you see our hearts are gay?
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| Though the sky is black, and the ocean’s violent today?
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| You’ll never spend a season in hell if you lie in bed all day
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| And you won’t ever see anything beautiful again
|
| The artist in the idiot’s clothes
|
| You know the way they go
|
| They go down, they drown
|
| They go down, they drown
|
| They go down, they drown |