| She texts from the exit says she’s on her way over
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| In an Ocelot coat with the epaulet shoulders
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| It’s sweet 'cause I’m a sucker for the dictator chic
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| And I’m good with the irregular heartbeats
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| So now she’s hanging with me
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| And we’ve been sharing ideas
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| And it seems like we’ve got similar interests
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| And it seems like we’ve got similar problems
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| I think we know the same people
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| I think I know what she means
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| She says she loves the way these little flames
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| Make everything all black and grey
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| But sometimes all that smoke can make you sick
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| Still a scorch mark or a blistered hand
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| Seems a whole lot better than
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| Sitting around and waiting for the click
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| Her parents are in Paris
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| It’s the best place we can access, yeah
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| It’s not exactly sanctioned man
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| But she’s still got a key
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| She’s traveling at top speed
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| She keeps checking her heartbeat
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| She puts her thumb to her neck
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| Then she kicks off her moccasins
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| The buckskin always sucks me in
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| Sets up in the restroom
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| Says she’s never coming out
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| Unravelling the bandages
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| Using all the toothbrushes
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| She’s crying 'cause the cotton looks like clouds
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| Delores don’t the clouds just get forgotten?
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| Once a stronger wind comes in
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| We both know what will happen
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| We’ll dissipate. |
| We’ll disappear
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| In neon, cigs, and maintenance beers
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| Call the guy and meet him on Manhattan
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| All the things that we hold dear
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| Our favorite bands our deepest fears
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| We both know exactly what will happen
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| 'Cause every time the clouds roll in
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| You can’t get sentimental
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| And her jacket makes her look just like a general
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| And she’s generally restless
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| She’s got the blistering hands
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| Sends a text from the exit says she’s on her way over
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| In an Ocelot coat with the epaulet shoulders |