| William by the windowsill
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| Was gazing at the big blue hill
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| Far beyond this cold and busy town
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| I hate the people down below
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| What are they up to I don’t know
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| The eggs are just sizzling in the pan
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| There’s nothing that I’d rather like to do
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| Than stick my head into the gutter of the roof
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| And whistle all the saddest tunes
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| I couldn’t stand before but now I yearn for more
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| William by the windowsill
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| Was longing for the big blue pill
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| That will make it go away
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| Now that it is summertime
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| All he wants to do is die
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| And burn the sun-tanned beach boys
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| By the shore
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| «my mother is a bitch you know»
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| William thought and hoped for snow
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| That suffocates and buries him alive
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| If there’s nothing to win then what is there to lose?
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| Postmen don’t deliver some good news wrapped up in silver
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| And I bet I shouldn’t think
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| 'bout my t-shirt that I shrunk
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| 'cause I washed it in the sink
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| There’s nothing that I’d rather like to do
|
| Than stick my head into the gutter of the roof
|
| There’s nothing that I’d rather like to do
|
| Than stick my head into the gutter of the roof
|
| And whistle all the saddest tunes
|
| I couldn’t stand before but now I yearn for more
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| Oh well the young men
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| Ain’t nothing in this world these days
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| Oh well the young men
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| Ain’t nothing in this world these days |