| I was a young man, starving and drinking
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| And trying, to become a writer
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| And I remember that apartment
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| The smell of mice and dust
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| And the old woman with the pretty legs
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| All the kisses that I lost to your neck
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| I am a tennis player, playing on both sides of the net
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| And I, will get you yet
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| And I will turn you, I will turn you
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| Like a tattooed pigskin
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| And this time you won’t forget my face
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| Read my lips
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| A sculpture is a sculpture
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| Marmalade is marmalade
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| And a sculpture of marmalade is a sculpture
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| But it isn’t marmalade
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| She said with you inside me
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| Comes the knowledge of my death
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| But I still had some oranges left
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| Underneath the bed
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| I came to you, I came to depend on you
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| I came upon you, I came upon your floor
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| But the god should be left alone
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| One mustn’t bang upon the door
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| She said for everything that is visible
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| There is a copy that is hidden
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| She said, nothing takes on life
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| Until it has been eaten
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| I was working the hole with the sailor
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| And you wonder you don’t get invited to more parties
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| Read my lips
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| A sculpture is a sculpture
|
| Marmalade is marmalade
|
| And a sculpture of marmalade is a sculpture
|
| But it isn’t marmalade
|
| She said with you inside me
|
| Comes the knowledge of my death
|
| But I still had some oranges left
|
| Underneath the bed |