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Year of the Cat |
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artist:Al Stewart |
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On a morning from a Bogart movie |
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in a country where they turn back time |
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you go strolling through the crowd |
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like Peter Lorre contemplating a crime |
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She comes out of the sun in a silk dress |
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running like a watercolour in the rain |
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Don't bother asking for explanations |
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She'll just tell you that she came |
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in the year of the cat |
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She doesn't give you time for questions |
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as she locks up your arm in hers |
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and you follow till your sense |
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of which direction completely disappears |
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By the blue tiled walls near the market stalls |
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there's a hidden door she leads you to |
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these days, she says, I feel my life |
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just like a river running through |
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the year of the cat |
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Well, she looks at you so cooly |
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And her eyes shine like the moon in the sea |
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She comes in incense and patchouli |
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So you take her, to find what's waiting inside |
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The year of the cat |
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Well, morning comes and you're still with her |
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and the bus and the tourists are gone |
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and you've thrown away the choice |
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and lost your ticket |
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so you have to stay on |
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But the drum-beat strains of the night remain |
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in the rhythm of the new-born day |
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You know sometime you're bound to leave her |
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But for now you're going to stay |
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in the year of the cat |
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en~in the year of the cat |
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