| A spider wanders aimlessly within the warmth of a shadow
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| Not the regal creature of border caves
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| But the poor, misguided, directionless familiar of some obscure Scottish poet
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| The mist crawls from the canal
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| Like some primordial phantom of romance
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| To curl, under a cascade of neon pollen
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| While I sit tied to the phone like an expectant father
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| Your carnation will rot in a vase
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| A train sleeps in a siding
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| The driver guzzles another can of lager, lager
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| To wash away the memories of a Friday night down at the club
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| She was a wallflower at sixteen, she’ll be a wallflower at thirty four
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| Her mother called her beautiful
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| Her daddy said, «a whore»
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| The sky was bible black in Lyon, when I met the Magdalene
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| She was paralyzed in a streetlight
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| She refused to give her name
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| And a ring of violet bruises
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| They were pinned upon her arm
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| Two hundred francs for sanctuary and she led me by the hand
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| To a room of dancing shadows where all the heartache disappears
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| And from glowing tongues of candles I heard her whisper in my ear
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| 'j'entend ton coeur', 'j'entend ton coeur'
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| I can hear your heart, i can hear your heart, i can hear your heart
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| Hear your heart
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| I hear your heart
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| It’s getting late, for scribbling and scratching on the paper
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| Something’s gonna give under this pressure, and the cracks are already
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| beginning to show
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| It’s too late
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| The weekend career girl never boarded the plane
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| They said this could never happen again
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| Oh, so wrong, so wrong
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| This time it seems to be another misplaced rendezvous
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| This time, it’s looking like another misplaced rendezvous
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| With you
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| The parallel of you, you
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| On the outskirts of nowhere
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| On the ringroad to somewhere
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| On the verge of indecision
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| I’ll always take the roundabout way
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| Waiting on the rain
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| For I was born with a habit, from a sign
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| The habit of a windswept thumb, and the sign of the rain
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| Rain on me, rain
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| It’s started raining |