| Don’t stop the night, we dash to this flat
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| And again for the first time strip off our wet clothes
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| Stop the night, the lovers' sixth sense
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| Instinctively tells us another is close
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| Don’t stop the night, we peel back the sheets
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| And glimpse the life history lying underneath in stark relief
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| Stop the night, of the creak in the boards
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| The creak that forebodes the voyeur and the Christmas thief
|
| Make the night we first made love come again
|
| Don’t stop the night of the whispering tale
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| Of your crazy old flame with his heart palpitations and crisp physique
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| Stop the night of this pain in my neck
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| That wrecks any chance of a semi-acceptable sexual technique
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| Make the night we first made love come again
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| The night we first made love at gunpoint
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| For this uninvited, unrequited, undelighted, uninspired
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| Missionary, visionary, mercenary, «stick it up or I fire!»
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| Little boy lost down memory lane — ex-lover
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| Show me the night the skeleton came
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| Out of the closet and under the light feeling very much alive
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| Show me the night, naked and pink, negotiating a hot malt milk
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| We’re praying the old lady who keeps a spare key will suddenly arrive
|
| Make the night we first made love come again
|
| The night we first made love at gunpoint
|
| We swallow our pride and catch our breath
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| We swallow our breath and catch a sigh
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| We swallow a spy to watch our death
|
| Out of the corner of your eye
|
| Little boy lost down memory lane
|
| Your coppertone, scatterbrain, crack shot crank
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| Exasperated, lacerated, copy-cat clerk from Barclay’s Bank
|
| Little boy lost down memory lane
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| Lover, perhaps we’ll die
|
| Perhaps we’ll die
|
| Perhaps we’ll die |