| One more game, one more chance
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| One more orchestrated song and dance
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| He’d be up front and speak his piece and ask for her time
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| To put their heads together and try to make the knot unwind
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| And it strikes home that it’s time to make his move or it’s time to turn and
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| walk away
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| So he plays that old cliché
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| Silent tears, bleeding heart
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| Well our prima donna plies her art
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| Defenses of defenses of faultless design
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| Still she’s only asking him to help her make the knot unwind
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| And if the very next words leaving her lips could decide if he’d go or if he’d
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| stay
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| She would play that old cliché
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| Who makes up the rules for the world?
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| Haven’t we been down this road before?
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| Isn’t anything peculiar here?
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| Certainly there must be something more
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| Where are the words, where are the words
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| Where are the words
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| Where are the words, where are the words
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| Where are the words
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| And it’s almost not worth singing about, it seems so everyday anyway
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| Still we play that old cliché
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| And here sit I, one man show
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| I vivisect and then pretend to know
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| All it ever gets me is an ache in the mind
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| Can’t somebody help me to try to make the knot unwind
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| And I say what I say when I know there’s really nothing left to say
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| Then I play that old cliché
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| Throw away that old cliché |