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The way you talk could always make a fool of me |
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Studying the patterns of your speech |
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I was imagining a world just out of reach but brilliant, still |
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And you were fumbling for something in your purse |
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Wondering if things could get much worse |
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And if you'd find a cure for all your endless ills |
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There was a sound coming out of the way |
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That you looked at me the day that we met |
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Birds on the roof |
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Cackle words like the pages of books upturned |
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We were there and then we left |
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With whiskey, blood and breath |
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And the typical duress of being alive |
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You thought the band was out of tune and overdressed |
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Just your typical American b.s. |
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There was a sound at the edge of your lips |
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And the corners of your mouth |
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The day that I left |
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Birds on the roof mutter names out of context |
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And summer burns down |
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With a fluttering sound |
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I was another rubber band around your wrist |
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Staring at the stairway where we kissed were you |
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Imagining a world that don't exist and never will, |
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Or were you looking for my number in your purse? |
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Light another cigarette |
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And sing and curse |
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Until the dancefloor dreams and the world is still. |