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It's my turn |
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It's your turn |
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It's my turn |
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Time to leave |
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Take a bag |
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And pack it neat |
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I've got no future so I'm marching East |
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Corpses in cardboard boxes |
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A mystery to the world |
|
It's my turn |
|
It's your turn |
|
It's my turn |
|
Time to leave |
|
Take a bag |
|
And pack it neat |
|
I've got no future so I'm marching East |
|
Corpses in cardboard boxes |
|
A mystery to the world |
|
I don't feel exalted driving Japanese cars |
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And I don't see the value |
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Of losing paths like well-made rafts |
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It's not enough to cling to |
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Something I was driving haunts my recollection |
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And my frozen face |
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It warrents your affection |
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And I hate the fact |
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I always hate the fact |
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I'd like a room in St. Petersburg |
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With rotting walls and character |
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Where I can hide from strangers' eyes |
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And be a mystery to the world |
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And be a mystery to the world |