| You keep your heart in your back pocket
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| and your wallet on your sleeve
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| Because we all know money talks
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| and that our hearts take the back seat
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| No one wants to be the victim
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| no one wants to be the crime
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| You’ve taken all that’s left
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| and left the rest to do the time
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| You think that I depend on you like foreign gasoline
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| But my secrets would be safer in a tabloid magazine
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| You’re just another failure, faulty product of this mess
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| You’ll never be a hero, I’m the damsel in distress
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| You think that you’re the purpose
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| You’re the reason why I breathe
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| But you’re also just another man
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| who’s tearing at the seems
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| You’re not a saint, you’re just a sinner
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| You will never be the winner
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| Mr. Uncommunicative, what’s your game?
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| I never thought you’d stoop that low,
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| I never thought you’d lie
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| But now I’m not that blind
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| I know I’ve finally seen the light
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| Now I see I’m not the issue
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| but I’ll never point the blame
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| Unless I point in the direction
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| the direction of your name.
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| It doesn’t hurt to try a little self-less humbleness
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| Instead of wallowing in thoughts and all your unrecovered mess
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| You’ve still got years ahead of you to rectify yourself
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| Instead you focus on the negative, I’m worried for your health
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| You think that you’re the purpose
|
| You’re the reason why I breathe
|
| But you’re also just another man
|
| who’s tearing at the seems
|
| You’re not a saint, you’re just a sinner
|
| You will never be the winner
|
| Mr. Uncommunicative, what’s your game?
|
| Ooh, oooh…
|
| You think that you’re the purpose
|
| You’re the reason why I breathe
|
| But you’re also just another man
|
| who’s tearing at the seems
|
| You’re not a saint, you’re just a sinner
|
| You will never be the winner
|
| Mr. Uncommunicative, what’s your game? |