| Every morning we burn the bread
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| Walk it down to the waters edge
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| See the seagulls eat cigarettes
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| Check your breath in a spoon
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| All your stuff in the storage shed
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| Twisted sheets on the trundle bed
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| And the anti-psychosis meds
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| Made you feel all marooned
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| Last summer at the shore when I was working cleaning carpets
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| At some hotel that was haunted by some sailor who supposedly was murdered
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| After losing all his treasure in the harbor
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| That’s back when I found romance in these ghosts
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| I was honestly more bothered by the hundred miles of hallways
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| Than the clanking of the shackles or the shadows in the doorway
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| And we snuck into the ballroom and made echoes in it’s empty
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| And I grabbed you and I spun you and we both just started laughing
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| All the burns on the windowsill
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| Says she’s crazy about horses still
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| All these anti-psychosis pills
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| So much power and grace
|
| Up there on South Ocean View
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| All the shells made me think of you
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| We bought into a three for two
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| And a strawberry shake
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| First it’s April then it’s August
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| It’s the cost of doing business
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| You were scared and over cautious
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| The whole breakfast was unpleasant
|
| You just can’t keep throwing up and then cover it with sawdust
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| And expect us not to notice and pretend it didn’t happen
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| Last summer at the shoreline
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| When you walked into the water
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| Went out up to your waistline
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| And turned back to face the camera
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| Rolled your eyes back in their sockets
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| Then you raised your middle fingers
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| Defiant and undamaged
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| That’s when I took the picture
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| And this year we were standing
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| Looking out off the veranda
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| You said, «Yeah, I guess it’s pretty
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| But I’m a shell of what I once was»
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| That girl in last year’s picture
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| Is now haunting her own hallways
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| I no longer see the romance in these ghosts
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| This coffee’s cold, this toast is gross
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| I no longer see the romance in these ghosts |