| You can listen to Kristian
|
| When hes down in the subways
|
| Playing the platforms
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| For old friends he dont know
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| Some hide in their papers
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| Some sip one last cup of coffee
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| Some just look away
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| So their eyes dont show
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| Its getting late
|
| The citys half asleep
|
| Old Kristian climbs the stairs
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| Like hes crossing a river wide and deep
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| Throws his coat at his sofa
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| Reaches for the neck of his guitar
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| And he plays it like its religion
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| You can hear the battle scars
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| Yeah
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| Its a melody
|
| A cure for the memory
|
| Just follow the melody
|
| And your whole day is gone
|
| And hey its like hes dreaming
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| So dont you go and wake him
|
| Oh you find your own cloud to ride upon
|
| Yeah
|
| His musics in the hallway
|
| Its like clock work coming our way
|
| In the hour before midnight
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| It slips in thru paper walls
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| Past an old man at a window
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| Past two kids asleep on pillows
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| Past a woman like a willow
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| Swaying down Kristians hall
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| Its getting late, the citys half asleep
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| She knocks on Kristians door
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| And the frozen hinges creek
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| Dont stop on account of me she says
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| Then she sits herself right down
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| And suddenly this big old city, ain’t such a lonely town
|
| Yeah
|
| Its a melody
|
| A cure for the memory
|
| Just follow the melody
|
| And your whole day is gone
|
| And hey its like their dreaming
|
| So dont you go and wake them
|
| Or youll find your own cloud to ride upon
|
| To ride upon
|
| Find your own cloud |