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With your mercury mouth in the missionary times, |
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And your eyes like smoke and your prayers like rhymes, |
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And your silver cross, and your voice like chimes, |
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Oh, who among them do they think could bury you? |
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With your pockets well protected at last, |
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And your streetcar visions which you place on the grass, |
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And your flesh like silk, and your face like glass, |
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Who among them do they think could carry you? |
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Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands, |
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Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes, |
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My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums, |
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Should I leave them by your gate, |
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Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait? |
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With your sheets like metal and your belt like lace, |
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And your deck of cards missing the jack and the ace, |
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And your basement clothes and your hollow face, |
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Who among them can think he could outguess you? |
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With your silhouette when the sunlight dims |
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Into your eyes where the moonlight swims, |
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And your match-book songs and your gypsy hymns, |
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Who among them would try to impress you? |
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Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands, |
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Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes, |
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My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums, |
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Should I leave them by your gate, |
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Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait? |
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The kings of Tyrus with their convict list |
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Are waiting in line for their geranium kiss, |
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And you wouldn't know it would happen like this, |
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But who among them really wants just to kiss you? |
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With your childhood flames on your midnight rug, |
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And your Spanish manners and your mother's drugs, |
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And your cowboy mouth and your curfew plugs, |
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Who among them do you think could resist you? |
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Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands, |
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Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes, |
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My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums, |
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Should I leave them by your gate, |
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Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait? |
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Oh, the farmers and the businessmen, they all did decide |
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To show you where the dead angels are that they used to hide. |
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But why did they pick you to sympathize with their side? |
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Oh, how could they ever mistake you? |
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They wished you'd accepted the blame for the farm, |
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But with the sea at your feet and the phony false alarm, |
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And with the child of a hoodlum wrapped up in your arms, |
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How could they ever, ever persuade you? |
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Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands, |
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Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes, |
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My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums, |
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Should I leave them by your gate, |
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Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait? |
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With your sheet-metal memory of Cannery Row, |
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And your magazine-husband who one day just had to go, |
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And your gentleness now, which you just can't help but show, |
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Who among them do you think would employ you? |
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Now you stand with your thief, you're on his parole |
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With your holy medallion which your fingertips fold, |
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And your saintlike face and your ghostlike soul, |
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Oh, who among them do you think could destroy you |
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Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands, |
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Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes, |
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My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums, |
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Should I leave them by your gate, |
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Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait? |