| Do you ever think of me up there
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| When you’re God knows where
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| With your eyes closed in front of the crowd?
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| Would you pull me up on stage if I
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| Came to your show tonight?
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| Would you still get me high backstage?
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| Do I remember summer rain
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| That sweet metallic taste
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| The chemicals that made us stay awake?
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| I didn’t really get it then
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| But it struck my mind the other day:
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| I think you’re right about «the leaving» part
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| But you’re wrong about «the running away»
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| I’m still working on the could-have-beens
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| Of you and I, I mean
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| What if Patricia hadn’t chosen that night?
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| You told me once that if we ran away
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| And never spoke her name
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| Then the world would fall back into place
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| But I rely on muscle memory
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| Onstage wine and irony
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| If you somehow got the best of me
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| Put it out there in when my recollection’s slow
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| I’m in the corner by the bar, tonight
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| You played a song of mine
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| With contorted chords and words shuffled around me
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| I don’t mind you changing it, rearranging it
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| Kinda like the way you’re slowing it down
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| Your introduction it was eloquent
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| But you didn’t write that song on the road
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| Sure, I agree with the sentiment
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| I’ll be waiting where the flightcases load
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| She lived right across the street from us
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| And her mum still wakes up insane
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| Just to ask: will she back again?
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| Now, what am I supposed to say?
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| So we’ll be dining with the could-have-beens
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| You and I, I mean
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| And though our words need time to unfold
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| There are moments worth remembering
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| I hope you’re good at it
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| 'Cause there is so much I wish I didn’t know
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| And that’s why you’re not coming back
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| And that’s why I can never leave
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| But Patricia would have that loved that song
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| Just the way you’re playing it to me |