| Dear Mother, we all got bad days
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| And I know you’ll understand
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| Where we open up a foreign door
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| With a pair of foreign hands
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| Where we find ourselves alone at the foot
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| Of a pair of foreign stairs
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| Dear Mother, you know how our bad days
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| Can catch you unawares, and catch us unawares
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| Dear Mother, we all got bad days
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| And I know that you’ll agree
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| With a bottle that’s filled up with Vicodin
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| And a child who looks just like me
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| And a cellar that’s as dark as winter’s cold
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| With a hole in the stone cold wall
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| And a child like me who’s hiding
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| A child who can’t hear your call
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| There’s a string that runs through our bad days
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| If you pull that string real tight
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| The days all crumple together
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| And all that you see is night
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| And the doorknob becomes your enemy
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| And the window, you see through a haze
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| Dear Mother, I wish you could stand inside
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| And see all my bad days
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| Well, my bad days all got together
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| And they stood in a row for me
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| And I plunged deep into the row
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| And I couldn’t hear and I couldn’t see
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| And I came out after thousands came
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| And thousands passed away
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| Now I stand all alone at the foot of the stairs
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| And I wait for more bad days
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| There’s a string that runs through our bad days
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| If you pull that string real tight
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| The days all crumple together
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| And all that you see is night
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| And the doorknob becomes your enemy
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| And the window, you see through a haze
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| Dear Mother, I wish you could stand inside
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| And see all my bad days |