| It’s difficult. |
| It’s very tough
|
| I said to the man who’d been sleeping rough
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| To sit within a fragrant breeze
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| All among the nodding trees
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| That hang heavy with the stuff
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| He threw his arms around my neck
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| He brushed the tear from my cheek
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| And held my soft white hand
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| He was an understanding man
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| He did not even barely hardly speak
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| Easy money
|
| Rain it down on the wife and the kids
|
| Rain it down on the house where we live
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| Rain until you got nothing left to give
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| And rain that ever-loving stuff down on me
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| All the things for which my heart yearns
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| Gives joy in diminishing returns
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| He kissed me on the mouth
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| His hands they headed south
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| And my cheek it burned
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| Money, man, it is a bitch
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| The poor, they spoil it for the rich
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| With my face pressed in the clover
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| I wondered when this would be over
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| And at home we are all so guilty-sad
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| Easy money
|
| Pour it down the open drain
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| Pour it all through my veins
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| Pour it down, yeah, let it rain
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| And pour that ever-loving stuff down on me
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| Now, I’m sitting pretty down on the bank
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| Life shuffles past at a low interest rate
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| In the money-coloured meadows
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| And all the interesting shadows
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| They leap up, then dissipate
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| Easy money
|
| Easy money
|
| Easy money
|
| Rain it down on the wife and the kids
|
| Rain it down on the house where we live
|
| Rain it down until you got nothing left to give
|
| And rain that ever-loving stuff down on me |