| Way back
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| When Elsa was a little girl
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| She saw a deer in her yard
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| And she went over to take a peek
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| She waved at it through the glass
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| A gunshot cracked
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| And steaming blood fanned out around its kicking feet
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| Dead eyes staring
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| Dead eyes staring
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| Now she’s all grown, big-boned, and sweet
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| Dancing to her records late at night
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| When there’s no one around who might hear her
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| As she tries to sing
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| Fly strips along the walls
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| She twirls through the halls
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| Of buzzing wings
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| She puts on the clothes she likes to sleep in
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| Leaves the hall lights on bright
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| And falls nervous into dreaming
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| 'Cause she knows what she’ll find
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| Staring back all blank and dead
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| She takes a hit and slides out of bed
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| Eh, huh!
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| You said Jack’s handsome and he’s dumb
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| Drinks at your father’s bar with all the scum
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| 'Til his flushed face goes slack
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| He’s new in town
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| Came one night when it was raining
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| Bag full of blank notebooks on his back
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| And he’s always complaining
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| Yeah, he knows he’s a poet just uninspired
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| Says it’s his muse who is a fucking hack
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| Says the bitch must be sleeping on the job
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| Like some lazy god-slob
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| Don’t give a shit about her little Jack
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| He whistles for another round
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| Elsa’s walking down the street
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| Jack sees her through the glass and winks
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| Elsa smiles back from the crosswalk
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| Huh!
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| Brakes squealing and screeching
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| Jack runs to the Cadillac
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| Sees Elsa gurgling beneath it
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| Her eyes stare dead-blank
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| Rolling round in her twitching head
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| Like a dumb animal he thinks
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| And the beauty overwhelms him
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| Yeah, huh!
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| Yeah!
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| He writes and writes and writes
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| He writes and writes and writes
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| He writes a title on the page
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| «Doe-Eyed Girl» it says |