And around him wrought the old city, He was looking for a woman, lines across
her hand, She shook land, he went at it in these pleasures
that kill, whistled close to each and every demand.
And every station he waited, between the trains,
her hands full of coins, her chicken eyes bowed down toward the sand,
We heard talk of how they were chasing ghosts from cathedrals,
so not to turn pages from books, left it on a carved wooden stand.
And the trains would sit quietly in the stations,
and they'll sit until the sun prints through the clouds,
And across the sea and semi-amongst that old southern city,
you really have no manner.
Ah, me, nah.
Ah, me, nah.
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