| I’m standing on this corner, can’t get their attention
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| Facing rush hour faces turned around
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| I clutch my stack of paper, press one to a chest
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| Then watch it swoop and stutter to the ground
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| I’m weary with right-angles, abbreviated daylight
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| And waiting for a winter to be done
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| Why do I still see you in every mirrored window
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| In all that I could never overcome?
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| How I don’t know what I should do
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| With my hands when I talk to you
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| How you don’t know where you should look
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| So you look at my hands
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| How movements rise and then dissolve
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| Melted by our shallow breath
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| How causes dance away from me
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| I am your pamphleteer
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| I walk this room in time to the beat of the Gestetner
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| Contemplate my next communique
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| The rhetoric and treason of saying that I’ll miss you
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| Of saying «Hey, well maybe you should stay»
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| Sing, Oh what force on earth could be
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| Weaker than the feeble strength
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| Of one, like me remembering
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| The way it could have been
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| So, help me with this barricade
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| No surrender, no defeat
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| A specter’s haunting Albert Street
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| I am your pamphleteer
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| I am your pamphleteer
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| I am your pamphleteer |