| He was a songwriter
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| Writing songs about a girl
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| She was a ghostwriter
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| Lying to the world
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| In deep anticipation
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| Of the day that she had written
|
| And by her own admission
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| She’d be picked up, kissed and twirled
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| He was a fearful boy
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| Watchful of the earth
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| Worried that it might split apart
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| And he wouldn’t even hear it first
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| He’d be caught in some position
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| Like a broken, old physician
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| And worst of all he feared that it would hurt
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| He’s poured his heart out
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| Is nothin' gonna come of that
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| So when can he finally say
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| At last
|
| At last
|
| At last
|
| At last
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| Oh, I thought you’d never ask
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| Oh, seven hundred letters
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| She catalogued them all
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| Dated them and numbered them
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| And then hid them down below
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| She would always keep 'em
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| Once a year would read them
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| Each time she’d be thinkin'
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| Somehow, he must know
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| She’s poured her heart out
|
| Is nothin' gonna come of that
|
| So when can she finally say
|
| At last
|
| At last
|
| At last
|
| At last
|
| Oh, I thought you’d never ask
|
| Outside of his apartment
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| The night was blanketed in mist
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| She stood lookin' up at his light
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| And thinking' what it meant
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| It meant that he was in there breathing
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| What was it he was thinking
|
| It was of her she wished, she wished
|
| They’re pourin' their hearts out
|
| Is nothin' gonna come of that
|
| So when can they finally say
|
| At last
|
| At last
|
| At last
|
| At last
|
| Oh, I thought you’d never ask
|
| At last
|
| At last
|
| At last
|
| Oh, I thought you’d never ask |