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Tell it to the judge, man. |
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Tell it to your motherless reflection. |
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In a sock and one shoe |
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after the great defection |
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he said, "tell a lie sometimes, tell the truth |
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when it suits you, and when you've lost your way |
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tell a story." |
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Tell your story, tell it, tell it. |
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Tell your story to anyone who'll listen. |
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Tell your story, don't stop talking |
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just tell your story walking. |
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Listing through Carol Gardens |
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on the way to Cobble Hill |
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I stopped by a psychic's dusty, wilted windowsill. |
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Forgot what she told me, mostly |
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but I remember one thing she said |
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"You may slip and call some lousy fuck your friend |
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but in the end you'll come out even |
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then, tell your story." |
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And it's a sorry, frightful thing |
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when you want to cry, but you can't keep from laughing. |
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Outside the church that's so quiet it dares you to shout |
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you put a hand to your mouth to stop the rain. |
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You do a St. Vitus dance, to the sky you raise your voice. |
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This is your chance, you have no choice |
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you tell your story. |