| What’s come to stay from your cannonball days
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| But a house and some clothes on the line?
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| You fired away with your drunken brigade
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| In the streets of New York as a child
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| A woman so fine, yeah, fine as a girl
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| Slow like an Italian wine
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| Her hair all a mess and her dress all disheveled
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| But all of your roses have died
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| Better luck in the next life
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| 'Cause your gonna need it, dear
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| Loved you back then but I couldn’t say when
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| All of your roses have died
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| All of your roses have died
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| I tasted your lips, put my hands on your hips
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| Danced in apartment A-9
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| Your cats on the sill and my head to your breast
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| Feeding your rhythms divine
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| A west Jersey queen with a rattle machine
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| Tasted the salt through your skin
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| Loved you back then but I couldn’t say when
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| All of your roses have died
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| Better luck in the next life
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| Go give them some hell and goodbye
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| Loved you back then but I couldn’t say when
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| All of your roses have died
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| All of your roses have died
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| A bask in the heat down on Christopher Street
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| Bought you a rose from a bum
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| Left you a note that I stuffed in your coat
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| You laughed and you said it was dumb
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| You broke like a stem and I guess you’re with him
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| I’m sure that he treats you just fine
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| So bottoms up, cheers, baby, here’s to your tears
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| All of your roses have died
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| Better luck in the next life
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| I’ll miss you but go on, goodbye
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| I feel like a straight from his cannonball days
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| When all of your roses were mine
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| When all of your roses were mine |