| Here we are then, here we are
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| Notes from a suicide
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| And he will never ever be
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| The greatest living Englishman
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| It’s such a melancholy blue
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| Or a grey of no significance
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| Plastic coated surfaces
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| A space to place his suitcase
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| As he’s bussed from A to B
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| But it’s such a melancholy blue
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| The curtains round the bed are drawn
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| Broadcast voices from the ward
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| The humming of machines are heard
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| But there are distances between
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| Yes, there are distances between
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| His aspirations visited him nightly
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| And amounted to so little
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| Too much self in his writing
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| Now he will never ever be
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| The greatest living Englishman
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| The engine shifts into second gear
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| They’re all aboard accounted for
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| It’s a journey he must make alone
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| The black sheep boy is leaving home
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| It’s been rehearsed a thousand times or more
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| He’s well prepared of that he’s sure
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| But still it’s such a melancholy blue
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| He’s erased a page of history
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| Much as he’d intended to
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| He wouldn’t speak or show you he was happy
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| Though you’d meet him with your eyes
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| There was a wall that always stood between you
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| He’d shut himself outside
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| And the love that he engendered
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| Would never be enough
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| For him to feel alive
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| Warm and tender
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| He’d shut himself outside
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| Not a fake nor a sham
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| But dug in deep and fighting
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| The world could not embrace a man
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| With so much self in his writing
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| And he was never gonna be
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| The greatest living Englishman
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| He had ideas above his station
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| Minor virtues go unmentioned
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| Little England you fit like a straightjacket
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| Hemmed by the genius of others
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| He said «to conquer the world is not to leave a trace
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| Remove even the shadow of the memory of your face»
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| A grey of no significance |