| I’m sorry that I’m late
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| I went blind
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| I got confetti in my eyes
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| I was held up at yesterday’s parties
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| I was needed on the congo line
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| But my dear, oh, my dear
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| I’d like to fight the good fight for another couple of years
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| 'Cause to say the war is over is to say you are a widow
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| You’re not a widow yet
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| You’re not a widow yet
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| You’re not a widow yet
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| You’re not a widow yet
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| So this one’s for the critics and their disappointed mothers
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| For the cupid and the hunter shooting arrows at each other
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| Ain’t no such thing as a saint,
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| Ain’t no such thing as a sinner, oh
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| There’s a swan among the pigeons of Barcelona’s floor
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| There’s a Samson with Delilahs lining up outside the door
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| If you are sharpening your scissors
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| I am sharpening my scissors,
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| And I am sharpening my sword
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| So you can take me to the dragon’s lair
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| Or you can take me to Rapunzel’s windowsill
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| Either way it is time for a bigger kind of kill
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| A bigger kind of kill
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| Oh, I see your face when I close my eyes
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| Oh, I see the muscles in your legs from the way you always rise
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| To the occasion of catching things that fall
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| Like the statuettes on pedestals I tend to build too tall
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| But I have navigated Iceland
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| I’ve laid my claim on Portugal
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| I have seen into the wasteland
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| Oh, the future
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| Oh, the future of us all
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| Of dead, dead leaves last fall
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| Oh, keep them in her country
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| Of dead, dead leaves last fall
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| Dead leaves
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| Dead leaves
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| Dead leaves
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| Dead leaves
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| Seen from the back of a train
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| I rode away from your station
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| They drifted in the air
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| Like memoirs of old conversations
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| Sprung from a leather case
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| You opened in the wind
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| To watch the papers chase each other
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| Into oblivion
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| You’re such a champion
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| You’re such a champion
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| I hide behind your sun
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| You are the champion
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| So you can take me to the dragon’s lair
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| You can take me to Rapunzel’s windowsill
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| Either way it is time, oh, it is time
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| For a bigger kind of kill
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| A bigger kind of kill |