| There, beyond the windowsill
|
| Lies the child that we all dread
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| An affront to our ease and our lassitude
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| A thorn in our side
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| How soon will she die?
|
| Now every road I take, no matter how far
|
| Leads me back here again, convicted by your smile
|
| And every waking dream, and every wasted hour
|
| Seems veined with a disease that I cannot escape
|
| Soft music plays on the gramophone
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| A fire in the grate, arm around your wife’s waist
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| Warms your crocodile tears
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| As you think of the child under the cellar stairs
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| When will she disappear?
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| If there’s no way through for you, there’s no way through for me
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| I refuse the cool gardens, I reject my honored seat
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| If there’s no way through for you, there’s no way through for me
|
| I don’t need the golden banners, I don’t need the vain embrace
|
| Now, every road I take, no matter how far
|
| Leads me back here, convicted by your smile
|
| All is veined with a disease that I cannot escape
|
| For troubled cells do not a healthy body make
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| There is no greater good
|
| if you’re trodden underfoot
|
| There is no greater good
|
| if you’re trodden underfoot
|
| There is no greater good.
|
| Paradise is a lie if we have to burn you at the stake to get inside
|
| There is no greater good.
|
| Paradise is a lie if we have to burn you at the stake to get inside
|
| There is no greater good.
|
| Paradise is a lie if we have to burn you at the stake to get inside
|
| There is no greater good.
|
| Paradise is a lie
|
| if you’re not by my side
|
| Paradise is a lie
|
| if you’re not by my side |