| Oscar Wilde died in bed
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| Several floors above my head
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| Living well beyond his means
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| In that crazy Paris scene
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| Rain falls down in sheets so clear
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| No one ever calls me here
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| Traveling by my self these days
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| I’m into jazz and felt berets
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| Far from the that old eastern shore
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| Searching for strange metaphors
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| I don’t want to be another victim of fashion
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| I don’t want to see my name in the paper each day
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| Leave that to the young Turks
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| They’re more handsome and dashing
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| Posing for paparazzi’s down Laguna way
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| Down in the metro I feel the world start to multiply
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| Bastille, rubber wheels, spiked heels, subterranean lullaby
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| Met an African prancer, a hemisphere dancer
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| Spied the ghost of Brassens
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| We smiled at the secret we shared
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| And I hid it like contraband
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| Quietly making noise, making noise
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| Starts with kindergarten toys
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| Not too soft not too loud
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| Just enough to draw a crowd
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| Quietly, quietly, quietly making noise
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| Followed the beat, I found myself in this patois spot
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| Outside a blizzard was blowing but inside the joint was hot
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| Zouk songs, rubber thongs, sing-a-longs
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| The words flew right by my face
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| Rhythm and motions, a blamma jamma potion
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| You cannot erase
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| Quietly making noise, making noise
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| Pissin off the old killjoys
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| Glass packs on a hot Mustang
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| A Telecaster with a twang
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| Quietly, quietly, quietly making noise
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| Singers and writers and poets
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| Have flocked here for centuries
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| The city of light is built upon mountains of memories
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| Baritone saxophone, monotones
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| Speak of the voice I’ve heard before
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| It’s a lasting impression
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| A Gypsy expression you cannot ignore |