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His foot held the door, |
|
To the alley in back |
|
Where the hotel's kitchen let out |
|
And the night butcher stood |
|
'Neath a dim iron moon |
|
And spoke to himself right out loud |
|
Spoke to himself right out loud |
|
I gave him some room |
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And waited for you, |
|
Sat on the steps like a kid |
|
Polished my boots |
|
On the back of my calf |
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And smoked like it was something I did, |
|
Smoked like it was something I did |
|
That summer was thick |
|
And as still as a nun |
|
On the steps of St. Michael's on Grand |
|
Who scowled at a window |
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Propped up with a broom |
|
That aired every moan of a man, |
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That aired every moan of a man |
|
You spoke from behind me, |
|
"You look like a soldier |
|
Guarding the president's train" |
|
Taking my arm, |
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A scarf on your head |
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As if, oh dear God, it could rain, |
|
As if, oh dear God, it could rain |
|
His foot held the door, |
|
To the alley in back |
|
Where the hotel's kitchen let out |
|
And the night butcher stood |
|
'Neath a dim iron moon |
|
And spoke to himself right out loud |
|
Spoke to himself right out loud |