| Slow motion in the quiet of your room:
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| So potent is the smell of her perfume
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| that you think she’s eternal
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| that you think she’s everything
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| -but no-one knows what she is…
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| Repentance for all you should have said-
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| Her entrance seems to raise you from the dead
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| and you think she’s really with you
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| and you think she’ll always stay.
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| always ready to forgive you,
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| always ready to grant you her mercy
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| -but in her own way.
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| When she comes she’ll be a stranger;
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| Struck dumb you’ll try to protest
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| As the drum beats out the danger,
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| Too late-you should have noticed
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| That the lady with her skin so white
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| Like something out of Blake or Burne-Jones
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| Always blocked out the light
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| and shadowed all you owned.
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| Still you think she’s forever,
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| Yesterday and tomorrow
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| -but no-one knows where she is.
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| Still you swear that you can win her
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| And your prayer is that she’ll want you;
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| Aware, once a saint, now you’re a sinner
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| And your sins are going to haunt you
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| When the lady with her skin so white
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| Like something out of Edgar Allen Poe
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| Holds your hand so tight
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| and you hope that she’ll never let go. |