When you see my face, does it remind you of the old head space
The halls we ran, me and you, that was love but now we’re through.
Now I’m all alone, drunk again. The Brunswick valley is painted red.
I talk through the phone at you, the crowd laughs as I sing the lovers’ Blues.
They say two rights don’t make a wrong but tell that to the writer of this song.
I heard he’s all alone, drinking whiskey and hanging by the phone.
He wouldn’t go to work, it was weeks ago he last changed his shirt.
Protest the art of love, remember babe you can’t wrestle a dove.
There it goes, the sound of clocks, each tick makes you wonder when your time will stop. Lo and behold, life goes on even if you’re dressed in gold or grime, blood or wine, it’s to the dirt we’ll all return in time.
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