| One year to the day her father’s in the garden
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| He keeps it as it was the day she went away
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| On every life some rain must fall
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| But that doesn’t mean we let the roses go
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| One year to the day her mother’s in the kitchen
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| She calls him from the backdoor — Come, love, have some tea
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| It takes a bit of getting used to
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| Only setting out 2 places
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| Could I bring her back to them
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| WIth a few strokes of this fountain pen
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| All’s forgiven, start again
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| I could put her in a taxi Idling at the corner
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| Working up her nerve and wondering what she’ll say
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| Regretting how she left that morning
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| Recalling how they both were snoring
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| I could bring her back to them
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| WIth a few strokes of this fountain pen
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| All’s forgiven, start again
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| That man from the motor trade
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| Ran off with a meter maid
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| Roses, wild, have spilled into the garden
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| Backdoor off the hinge, the grass grown tall
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| Ten years to the day and counting
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| That little note she wrote? |
| That’s all she wrote
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| I could bring her back to them
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| WIth a few strokes of this fountain pen
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| All’s forgiven, start again
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| I could bring her back to them
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| But that’s not how this story ends
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| As is written so it ends
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| Bye-bye |