| I reorganised the diary
|
| I had pencilled in a window for us to meet
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| Though I knew that you’d be dancing to a different beat
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| When you showed up. |
| I was ready
|
| For whatever psychodrama you’d got in store
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| Yeah we both knew thaty we’d been through this before.
|
| Check the time and motion
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| Put a stopwatch on the story and don’t look back
|
| As we lock in to our repetitious act
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| You’re the eager beaver, keen to make a mark
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| I’m a true believer, whistling in the dark
|
| Building up the fever
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| Over and over we go through the motions
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| Hold on the notion one day it might change
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| Try not to show it but we’re lost in the moment
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| Meanwhile I try to hang on to the ghost of a chance
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| Falling through my fingers
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| Season by season we seek an agreement
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| Beyond rhyme and reason, however estranged
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| Meeting and greeting, our time here is fleeting
|
| Meanwhile we wheel around in an impression of dance
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| Falling through our fingers
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| It’s all falling through our fingers
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| What d’you really want?
|
| Dare you ever say
|
| What you really want?
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| Watch it slip away…
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| And the moral of the story
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| If there’s one at all is, surely, to get a grip
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| On what’s forever falling through our fingers
|
| Forever falling through our fingertips
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| You’re the eager beaver, keen to make a mark
|
| I’m a true believer, whistling in the dark
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| What a pair of divas! |
| What a pair of bright sparks! |