Just a little thought in the head of the one
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With the sunburnt cheeks and the eyes to the ground
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Making earwaxed tongue-tied gutter sounds
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Thinking of the lost rib, dialing the indelible
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Thinking the unthinkable-no one's home
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And the eyes say I don't believe we've met
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I don't believe you've had the privilege
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I don't believe we've met
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When the wind blows cold
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And the eyes of the child grow old
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When the erratic conga rises and falls
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Above the faithful metronome
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You can take me back to the gravestone
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See her strain from the weight of the globe
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Spinning around his assumptions-barefoot and tight-lipped
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He in his favourite chair blowing his world around
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First she's Beatrice, then she's a pumpkin
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Then she's a faded leaf in a book on his pantry shelf
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The head sees the hand play with the ring in the pocket
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And the head knows the hand knows the ring is as round
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As the tear-soaked shoulder in a room in another town
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The ring is getting heavy and so is the crown
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Which she drags to the chair feebly to keep the swelling down
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When the bird in the bush is worth two in the hand
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And the empty cage holds the empty man
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The bird keeps flying from the Orgoglian rising
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And the phone keeps ringing and the phone keeps ringing
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And the ring keeps slipping and the phone
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And the phone keeps on ringing
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And he's thinking about the one who got away
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May I Call You Beatrice
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Wild Strawberries |