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| My | love she speaks like silence, | without ideals or | violence, |
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| She doesn't have to say she's | faithful, |
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| Yet | she's true, like | ice, like | fire. |
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| People carry roses, | and make promises by the | hours, |
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| My love she laughs like the | flowers, |
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| Valentines | can't | buy her. |
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| In the | dime stores and bus stations, | people talk of situ | ations, |
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| Read books, repeat quo | tations, |
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| Draw con | clusions | on the | wall. |
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| Some speak of the future, | my love she speaks | softly, |
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| She knows there's no success like | failure |
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| And that | failure's no | success at | all. |
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| The | cloak and dagger dangles, | madams light the | candles. |
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| In ceremonies of the | horsemen, |
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| Even the | pawn must | hold a | grudge. |
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| Statues made of match sticks | crumble into one a | nother, |
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| My love winks, she does not | bother, |
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| She | knows too much to | argue or to | judge. |
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| The | bridge at midnight trembles, | the country doctor | rambles, |
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| Bankers' nieces seek per | fection, |
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| Expecting | all the gifts | that wise men | bring. |
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| The wind howls like a hammer, | the night blows cold and | rainy, |
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| My love she's like some | raven |
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| At my | window with a | broken | wing. |
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