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A picture postcard. A folded stub. A program of the play. File away your photographs. Of your holiday And your mementos. Will turn to dust. But that's the price you pay. For every year's a
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A picture postcard. A folded stub. A program of the play. File away your photographs. Of your holiday. . And your mementos. Will turn to dust. But that's the price you pay. For every year's
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me love you like a friend. Every little thing is gonna come right in the end. . Souvenir. No, not another souvenir. No, no no, no, souvenir
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the clouds. It could have gone all night. But the party had to stop. When they blew the circuit breaker. In the souvenir shop. . It's the Bob Robert's Society Band. Playing every Sunday at the
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you like me too. I can take your soul . You can keep my heart . Và đừng xem nó là vật trang sức hay souvenir . Whoo . Và đừng xem nó là vật trang sức hay souvenir . Whoo . Và đừng xem nó là souvenir
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A picture postcard. A folded stub. A program of the play. File away your photographs. Of your holiday And your mementos. Will turn to dust. But that's the price you pay. For every year's a
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better than pills how you put me to sleep. Calling your name, the only language I can speak. Taking my breath, a souvenir that you can keep. Post-Chorus. Giving me chills. Chills. Verse 2. Sunset Tower
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gun. I took it as a souvenir, as if I'd ever need one. The Allied Force prevailed and the war was winding down. And still I had the souvenir I'd picked up off the ground. The cloth turned out to be flag
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crois pas! . J't'ai dans la tкte, tatouйe comme la folie. Mais cфtй cњur, j'ai toujours йtй fantaisie. . Et le souvenir que j'ai de toi, c'est d'l'amour fou qui bat, qui bat. Comme la musique de
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see how people look down. I'm on the outside. Here's where the story ends. Ooh, here's where the story ends It's that little souvenir of a terrible year. Which makes my eyes feel sore. Oh, I never
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souvenir you kept your house key on. I wish I was the pedal brake that you depended on. I wish I was the verb 'to trust' and never let you down I wish I was a radio song, the one that you turned up. I
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souvenir you kept your house key on. I wish I was the pedal brake that you depended on. I wish I was the verb 'to trust' and never let you down I wish I was a radio song, the one that you turned up. I
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, all quiet. All quiet on the Western Front So tired of this garden's grief, nobody cares. Old kin kiss, the small white cross, their only souvenir. See the Prussian offense fly, weren't we grand. To
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just intrude and exclude. This impossible year. There's no you and me. This impossible year. Only heartache and heartbreak. And gin made of tears. The bitter pill I swallow. The scars souvenir. That
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