| Sitting up late
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| The ash in the grate
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| His pretty face goes prison pale
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| There’s a shadow tapping on the window —
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| His old lover’s come in from the wind and rain
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| And he dreams burning memories
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| The girl ain’t at his door — he’s just getting bored
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| Oh he can’t refrain 'cos he’s got it on the brain
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| Wants to see the bright lights, gonna do it again
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| Pyromaniac, ain’t no turning back
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| Gonna make shralak and a heap of dead matches
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| Spread some on the ground, have a look around
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| Burn it to the ground and watch the engine’s rushing, gushing
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| Totally written off but there’s laughter at chaos
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| There’s a white coat, traipsing up the hallway
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| They’re gonna find a safe place for him to stay
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| There’s a white coat, ear to the door
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| It’s no good it’s as quiet as it’s ever been before
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| What a laugh, they think they’ve got him trapped —
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| They might as well relax, it’s too late for the axe
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| Didn’t want to be mad, didn’t want to be old —
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| Can’t see the bright lights for the smoke in the key-hole
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| Pyromaniac, ain’t no turning back
|
| Gonna make shralak and a heap of dead matches
|
| Spread some on the ground, have a look around
|
| Burn it to the ground and watch the engine’s rushing, gushing
|
| Totally written off but there’s laughter at chaos |