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Once I got this fancy job |
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I can't lie, I got fat |
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Once you get a backyard to maintain |
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it gets hard to go back |
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I try to pull the pain from the most mundane of places |
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but it all feels weak: |
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a wrinkle on my face |
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a cold sore in the cheek |
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but if you stack the world on my back, |
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if you squeeze the eyes from my head |
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I'll still make those diamonds, diamonds, diamonds |
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diamonds 'til I'm dead |
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Call it what you will: |
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a changing of the tune |
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a pepper in the mill |
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a salting of the wound |
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so now it takes a week to write a song about writer's block |
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and all I do is watch the clock |
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but if you take the soup from my bowl, |
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ya, if you take the love from my bed, |
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if you take the hope from my soul |
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well I'll still give you diamonds, diamonds, |
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diamonds 'til I'm dead |
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diamonds 'til I'm dead |
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I still make those diamonds, diamonds, diamonds |
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diamonds 'til I'm dead |
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[blazing solo] |
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Is it wrong that there's nothing wrong? |
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Without conflict is it still a song? |
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Should I take the money and stand still? |
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Should I trade the wind for the trees? |
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Or can I bear the weight with my will? |
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Can I break the world on my knees? |
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all for those diamonds, diamonds, diamonds, |
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diamonds 'til I'm dead |
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I still make those diamonds, diamonds, diamonds, |
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diamonds 'til I'm dead |
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[repeat ad nauseam] |