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City bird, city bird |
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Fly away from my window, my window |
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'Cause you don't sing |
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Like the birds from home sing |
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Your song is dying |
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I set the table |
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For the ghosts in my home, my home |
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And pour the wine, and raise a glass |
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For the guests in my home |
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They're entering |
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In their skin and in their bones, still in their bones |
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The vision scares, but none compares |
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To the dread of drinking alone |
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After the tower's turned to a tomb |
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The underworld refugees all were refused by the banker |
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They could never go in |
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So I let them in, oh... |
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City bird, city bird |
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Fly away from my window, my window |
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'Cause you don't sing |
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Like the birds from home sing |
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Your song is dying |
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I light the candle |
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For the ghosts in my home, my home |
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And say a prayer to please send care |
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For the guests in my home |
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But in their sleep |
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They claw and scream the devil home (The devil's come home) |
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But that nightmare |
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Does not compare to the demons in sleeping alone |
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After the tower is turned to a tomb |
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The underworld refugees all were refused by the banker |
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And with nowhere to go |
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They wash up on Skid Row, oh... |
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City bird, city bird |
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Fly away from my window, my window |
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'Cause you don't sing |
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Like the birds from home sing |
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Your song is dying |