| You would be the one to come a' knocking at my door
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| And I would be the one to let you in and nothing more
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| You would break the bread and we would drink the blood of Christ
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| Blessed are the lovers for theirs shall be the night
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| And in the morning you’d be lying by my side
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| And you would want for more
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| And I would give you more
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| You would be the one to lay the blanket on the ground
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| And I would come to you but you’d be nowhere to be found
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| So I would turn to her for she was always, always there
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| Lost will be the souls of the wanton and the weak
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| And in the morning she’d be lying next to me
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| And I would want for more
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| And she would give me more
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| So then it was for me to come a' calling at your window
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| But you were never there. |
| She doesn’t live here — just the thin girl
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| The elevator operator told me so
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| So I would lay the table and I’d wait for you to call
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| Staring at the Myrtle and the Rose
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| And I would want for more
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| I became the one who sits and watches from afar
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| You became the woman in the German Car
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| I constructed characters in Quark and Photoshop
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| The longer you were gone the less the longing
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| The longer you were gone the less the longing
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| The longer you were gone
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| The less the longing
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| Now, who should be the one to come a' striding down my street?
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| To what do we owe this apparent sense of urgency?
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| And I should be the one touched by your very presence, dear?
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| The longer you were gone the less the longing
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| The longer you were gone the less the longing
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| And now you come for more
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| But I’ve no more to give
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| This has been enough for me |