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He stands by the doors of the Rex all night |
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Chain-smoking Celtas |
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His eyes trouble more than one woman |
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His voice is heavy and deep |
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There's dirt on the sidewalk |
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And the newsboy yell |
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Nothing ever changes at the Parallel |
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Nothing ever changes at the Parallel |
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There 's a girl at the Molino |
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She wears a leather coat |
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The dust of Barcelona |
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Sticks to her heals as she walks |
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Trough the door |
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And he thinks: "What the hell |
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does she come here for? |
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Maybe she wants me, and that's |
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her way to say it? |
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Maybe she wants me, and that's |
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her way to say it? |
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Maybe she wants me, but who am I to tell? |
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He bites his fingernails |
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Scratches his eyebrows |
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Lights another cigarette |
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Watching the queens of the street |
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Acting their parody of love |
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And he feels like he stands by the gates of hell |
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Nothing ever changes at the Parallel |
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Nothing ever changes at the Parallel |
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That girl from the Molino |
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Who wears the leather coat |
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Sits there rockin' slowly on a chair |
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Gazing dreamly at the door |
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And he thinks: "What the hell |
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is she looking for? |
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Maybe she wants me, and that's |
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her way to say it? |
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Maybe she wants me, and that's |
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her way to say it? |
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Maybe she wants me, but who am I to tell?" |