| Cold and drizzly night in Chicago’s deep dish
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| Fluorescent light of the bathroom
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| Shows my hands as they are
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| See an eyelash on my cheek
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| Pick it off and make a wish
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| And walk back out into the bar
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| Wind at the windows
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| Neon lights, the pattered pane
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| The waitress wields the weight
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| Of her tray around her palm
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| The doorman cups his hands
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| And lights his cigarette again
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| And the rain marches on
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| (This is only a possibility in a world of possibilities. There are,
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| Obviously
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| There are many possibilities, ranging from small to large, before long
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| There
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| Will be short, before short there was nothing. |
| When there was nothing
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| There
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| Was always the possibility of something, becoming what it is)
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| Don’t even bother trying
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| To say something clever
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| Clever is as clever does
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| No matter what it says
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| I’m looking for a sign
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| Says you’re for real this time
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| But I don’t trust what’s in your head
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| I walk up to the bar
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| And point to the top shelf
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| And then I throw my head back
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| And laugh at myself
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| I raise a toast to all our saviors
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| Each so badly behaved
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| It’s too bad that their world
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| Is the one that they saved
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| (Now you got to dance with me, now is when it’s gotta be cuz I can’t
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| Wait for
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| The dance floor to fill in. If you want to dance with me, I’ll show
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| You how
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| It’s gonna be cuz I can’t wait for the band to begin)
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| There’s a spider spinning cobwebs
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| From your elbow to the table
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| While my eyes ride the crowd
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| In a secret rodeo
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| I smile with my mouth
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| Lift my watch up to the light
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| Say, oh look I have to go |