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Sarah wrote epistles on the subject of despair
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on the night last year when there was no love in the air.
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Listen friend she wrote, and I heard her pen cry before it broke.
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Who are we and why, oh why can't we behave?
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We are good people, aren't we? Do you know?
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Jon-jon had surprising eyes and narrow black suede shows,
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a war to fight in Paris and a sister with the blues.
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Puisque ton papa est en voyage you heard your mother making
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love is not what we are Jon-jon, you and I
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are rats at cupids table and we're fine.
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In the darkest corner of a downstairs gathering
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ladybirds and pirate cowboys, made up, conversing.
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Islands sinking from musicians, bedtime stories, York Magicians,
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but you don't have to worry darling, frozen hearts leave
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seethrough scarring, and no one else will know unless you tell.
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Drink to ghosts of past years' catastrophic love affairs,
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to robes of red and silver tales worn thin from too much care.
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Comfort doesn't always come in glasses, but perhaps tonight
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I won't be the only one with blue headlights.
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Come on ladies, take your love to town.
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Pick it up boys, take your love to town.
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Everybody, take your love to town.