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you gentlemen can gawk while I'm scrubbing the floors |
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and I'm scrubbing the floors while you're gawking |
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and maybe once you tipped me and it made you fell swell |
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in this ratty waterfront, in this ratty hotel |
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but you never know to whom you're talking |
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you never guess to whom you're talking |
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suddenly one night there's a scream in the night |
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and a yell: what the hell is that din |
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and you see me kind of grinning while I'm scrubbing |
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and you'll say: what's she got to grin? |
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and the ship, the black freighter |
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with the skull at the masthead |
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sails into the bay |
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then you gentlemen can say: hey girl, scrub the floors |
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make the beds, get up the stairs, earn you keep here |
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and you pass out the tips as you look out at the ships |
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but I'm counting up heads as I'm making up beds |
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'cause tonight none of you will sleep here |
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tonight none of you will sleep here |
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then on that night there's a banging in the night |
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and you yell: what the hell is that row |
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and you see me kind of staring out the window |
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and you'll say: what she got to stare at now? |
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and the ship, the black freighter |
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with fifty long cannons |
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opens fire on the town |
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then you gentlemen can wipe all the grins off your face |
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every building in the town is a flat one |
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the whole stinking place will be down to the ground |
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only this cheap hotel will be standing safe and sound |
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and you say: why do they spare that one? |
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you say: why do they spare that one? |
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then all night through with a noise and to-do |
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you'll wonder who's the person lives up there |
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and you see me stepping out into the morning |
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looking nice with a ribbon in my hair |
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and the ship, the black freighter |
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runs a flag up her masthead |
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and cheer rings the air |
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then just before noon there'll be hundreds of men |
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coming up off that ghostly freighter |
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and they're moving in the shadows where no-one can see |
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and they're chaining up the people and they're bringing them to me |
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asking me: kill them now or later? |
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asking me: kill them now or later? |
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noon on the clock and so still on the dock |
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you could hear a foghorn miles away |
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in the quiet of death I'll say: kill 'em now |
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and they'll pile up the bodies and I'll say: hoopla! |
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and the ship, the black freighter |
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sails away out to sea |
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and on it is me |