| It’s a slow motion night
|
| In the hot city lights
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| Past time when the good folks
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| Are snoring in bed
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| On a loose jointed cruise
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| To recolor your blues
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| An' with illegal notions alive
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| Alive in your head
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| And you are back from some war
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| That you’ve been fighting for
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| Some old blue blood bastard
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| In a dark pinstripe suit
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| And the word from your loins
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| Has your mind in your groin
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| And your back pocket burning with blood
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| With blood money loot
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| And you walk past the glow
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| Of the flicker picture shows
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| Where the raincoat men wait
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| For a child to come by
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| And the women in doorways
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| Who have nothing to say
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| 'Cause your money is talking
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| To the ones that you would try
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| And she owns the block
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| With the dead pawnshop clock
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| She’s the answer to dreams
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| That you pay to come true
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| She’s got no heart of gold
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| But that’s not what she’s sold
|
| She just sees herself doing what she
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| What she has to do
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| And she’s all that you’re hoping
|
| As her coat falls open
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| Give her bread and she leads you
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| To a bed on the floor
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| Where the ten million years
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| And through ten billion tears
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| The armies, bootmen have marched
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| Back from their wars
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| She’s in that state of grace
|
| Before time finds her face
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| With a mind of old wisdoms
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| And a body still young
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| And she tastes as sweet
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| As a child’s chaco chit
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| Before the butts and the whiskey
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| Had wasted the taste of your tongue
|
| Play the music again
|
| Of the Grey stubble men
|
| That groaning blue symphony
|
| Moans evermore
|
| And you watch as she fakes it
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| And of course you just take it
|
| She’s better than others
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| You never paid your money for
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| And you’ve used up your booty
|
| And the girl’s done her duty
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| And the turnstile has turned
|
| And you learn you are done
|
| And you’re back on the street
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| Joining fresh marching feet
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| You see more soldiers coming
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| And your girl chooses one
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| And the medic has brought
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| Shots for what you have caught
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| And your leave is all over
|
| You’re back on the line
|
| And you joke in the trenches
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| Of the hot blooded wenches
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| And the things that you’ll do
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| When they next give you the time
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| And you’re back in your army
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| Back shedding red blood
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| And you dream of the girl
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| As you sleep in the mud
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| And you know you’d swap with her
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| If the deal could be made
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| 'Cause you’d rather be working at love
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| At love as your trade |