| Most of my evenings I spend on my own, listening to Spanish guitars
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| Next year I say Barcelona for me; |
| late nights in dark Spanish bars
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| Sipping my whisky, then having one more, and smoking my black cigarettes
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| Asking Dolores to come home with me, knowing I’ll have no regrets
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| And if it’s not true, what harm can it do?
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| I know what I know, I go where I go
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| Sometimes on Sundays I stroll through the park down by the carousel
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| Hearing the children ride round in delight to a tune by my old friend Ravel
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| One that he sang for me one rainy night as I walked with him down by the Seine
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| How I love Paris, the music, the fun — I go there again and again
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| And if it’s not true, what harm can it do?
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| I know what I know, I go where I go
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| And if it’s not true, what harm can it do?
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| I know what I know, I go where I go
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| Ah, the impressionists up at the Met, I visit whenever I can
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| It’s bonjour to Vincent, bravo to Henri but the one that I love is Cezanne
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| And over his shoulder I silently watch as the small canvas bursts into flame
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| We stop at the inn on the way back to town, where the old men drink wine with
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| their games
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| And if it’s not true, what harm can it do?
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| I know what I know, I go where I go
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| And if it’s not true, what harm can it do?
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| I know what I know, I go where I go |