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It was backstage in Moscow late one night |
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We shared a cigarette, a kiss goodbye |
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Her name was Cayenne, so young and soft |
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Her hands trembled badly, her eyes trailed off |
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To bottles and objects around the room |
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My backup guitar, a tray of food |
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We didn't have very much to say |
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She said that she'd come from some other place |
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A town called Troyskirt, maybe Troysworth |
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I was pretty distracted packing my stuff |
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But I did make a point to ask her to stay |
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But she said she had friends that she had to go see |
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Later that summer I picked up my mail |
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She sent me a letter with a touching detail |
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"I used up my minutes calling hotels |
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To find you that night but to no avail" |
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"I know it's pathetic," she continued to write, |
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"But that was the greatest night of my life." |