| Gala hangs from the window frame
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| Dressed in black and white
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| Her face is colourless
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| In the moonlight
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| She turns around and her lips move
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| But the words just drop away
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| She leans on the back of a chair
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| And her arms begin to sway
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| She and I can hear voices
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| Talking in the room next door
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| Saying things we used to say
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| That we can’t believe in any more
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| We’ve seen too many castles crumble
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| Made too many innocent mistakes
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| Who could have known that one house
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| Could hold so much heartbreak?
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| And then the clockbell rings
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| The wind blows in —
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| Gala makes for the door
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| Her eyes blaze
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| And her hands are shaking
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| She opens her mouth and roars!
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| Gala doesn’t want, Gala doesn’t need
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| She claws at her face
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| With her nails till it bleeds
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| She runs down the stairs
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| In her poor bare-feet
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| She’s too woman to cry or go down on her knees
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| Then her mother is there
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| And her voice is soft
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| She pulls Gala close
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| She soothes Gala’s cuts
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| And gently chides
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| And Gala knows…
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| That Gala shouldn’t worry
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| She needn’t be afraid
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| Because there are sailors on the sea tonight
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| In ships that God made
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| Look! |
| They cast out the line
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| With a «heave two-three-four»
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| And they sing as they pull
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| Our lost souls aboard |