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Look out through your dark hair, |
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tell me the colour of your eyes when they're cool; |
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look out through the dark ages |
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and tell me what's covert, transfixing you. |
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Oh, you're nobody's business, |
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oh, you're nobody's business |
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and the patterns of your life |
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are suddenly twisted and torn |
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and gone are all the clothes that you've worn. |
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Just like yesterday's papers |
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you're tired and forlorn |
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and you're no-one. |
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Look back at the photos you've saved, |
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dead mementoes of your modelling days; |
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I look through all my cuttings of you, |
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but they all seem so lost, so dead, out of phase. |
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Oh, you're nobody's business.... |
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I think back to the girl that I knew - |
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she doesn't seem so very much like you: |
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she used to care about her smile and not her face... |
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that's before it was her fortune and took over her soul's place. |
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Oh, you're nobody's business.... |
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Papering yesterday's pages, |
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tapering off in the storm, |
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you're no-one. |