| Tropical night, malaria moon
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| Dying stars of the silver screen
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| Oh she danced that famous gypsy dance
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| With a hole in her tambourine
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| I was young enough and dumb enough
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| I swallowed down my Mickey Finn
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| She’d hijacked a few hearts, all right
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| I went into a tail spin
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| Oh, don’t sing me, don’t sing me
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| Don’t sing me no more gypsy love songs
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| Don’t sing me, don’t sing me
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| Don’t sing me no more gypsy love songs
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| Don’t stir it up again
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| I put my arm around her waist
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| Says she «Young man, you’re getting warm»
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| The room was going somewhere without me
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| And she laughed as she read my palm
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| Oh, don’t sing me, don’t sing me
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| Don’t sing me no more gypsy love songs
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| Don’t sing me, don’t sing me
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| Don’t sing me no more gypsy love songs
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| Don’t stir it up again
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| Oh stillborn love, passionate dreams, pitiful greed
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| And the silver tongues of the tinker girls
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| Who throw the book of life at you
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| But they don’t know how to read
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| She was a third generation Transylvanian
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| I was the seventh son of a seventh son
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| I begged the band «Don't play that tune
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| Please don’t beguine the begun»
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| When I awoke, she’d cut and run
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| She stole my blueprints and my change
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| Just a horseshoe and a note on the bed
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| And all it read was «Strange»
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| Don’t sing me, don’t sing me
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| Don’t sing me no more gypsy love songs
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| Don’t sing me, don’t sing me
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| Don’t sing me, don’t sing me
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| Don’t sing me no more gypsy love songs
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| Don’t stir it up again |