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I've grown accustomed to his face |
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He almost makes the day begin |
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I've grown accustomed |
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To the tune that he whistles night and noon |
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His smiles, his frowns |
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His ups, his downs |
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Are second nature to me now |
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Like breathing out and breathing in |
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I was serenely independent |
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And content before we met |
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Surely I could always be that way again |
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And yet, I've grown accustomed to his look |
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Accustomed to his voice |
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Accustomed to his face |
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I'm so used to hearing him say |
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"good morning," every day |
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His joys, his woes |
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His highs, his lows |
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Are second nature to me now |
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Like breathing out and breathing in |
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I'm very grateful he's a man and so easy to forget |
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Rather like a habit one can always break |
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And yet, I've grown accustomed |
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To the trace of something in the air |
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Accustomed to his face... |