| J.K. |
| is charming up his hand-wash love affairs
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| Softly cruising among the empty faces they wear
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| Each night it’s easy to get a love
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| Alright get get get
|
| And as I sit and I watch as he passes my way
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| Loving just one of his fourhundredeleven fiancées
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| Licking all his spacy fantasies
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| He’s the ballroom blitz, honey
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| So I think of all my flic-flacs
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| And I wonder why I come here every night
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| To watch the osmosis of creepers of art and design
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| But another southern comfort
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| Has to comfort that old jumping heart of mine
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| Sensational flight now
|
| Just in a Roxy night
|
| And the all-time black suited gambling boy
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| Is playing cards
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| And he’s got to give his Mustang away
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| To my manager
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| He’s got black cards
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| The Ramones upon the juke box’re simply doping the guys
|
| While the gypsy boys are painting my senses
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| Red hot blood
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| Stitch Stitch
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| Don’t let the chick
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| With these stiletto heels walk by
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| She’s got the nerve to share my vicious side
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| And the leather kid from behind the bar
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| He jumps right into the fight
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| Precious moments
|
| Just another Roxy night
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| So come on all you doormen
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| Kiss my vertical smile
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| Ruff me up if you want
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| That’s your stupid way to get high
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| When your mind is low
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| So
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| I’m knocking out a monster telling me I should go
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| He’s a weekend casanova, a Travolta or so
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| What?
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| I don’t know — tell me
|
| The last thing on my mind
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| Is slow motion of what I desire
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| A silly kind of Kubrik
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| A clockwork that’s out of time
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| And I end up in collapsing
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| On the bartender under champaigne on ice
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| With Freddy and her numbers
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| All in a Roxy night |