It was seven in the morning when the spark
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began to give. the bath was spilling over, my
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self pity spilling with it, so i, i fled the country
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to start it all again and found myself in paris in
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the cemetery rain.
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dear anne came to me and took me by the arm
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showed me old disasters embedded in the palm
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warned me of a lady with the sun behind her head.
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with a a granite neck, a singer who can never sing
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again. but you, my love:
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you must come, come to joy, turn your head to the sun
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it's down to you, you can shine, you can shake all the
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sorrow from your palm.. its down to you if you dare
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to come to joy.
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what was it i ran from, what burnt away inside?
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four hundred schoolboys and a lawyer at my side
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always running with these legs going nowhere
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a ghost in the system, and angel on the stairs...
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but oh! this time....
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i shall turn, turn my head to the sun..
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they are marching out of me.. one by one
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walking free. oh! they're going out of....
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oh! i can feel it moving, this time I'm really moving.
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are you ready to come, come to joy well it's really down to
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you if you dare to enjoy... its down to you... hold the key
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in your hands.. it's all in the palm of your hands.
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Paris
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Patrick Wolf |