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He talks a lot but never talks to anyone at all |
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He shakes his fists at busses and old posters on the walls |
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He knows someone who knew something about J.F.K. |
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But his friends are just the shadows in the halls and alleyways |
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The rumbling frozen pipes whisper secrets in the night |
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In the coffee grounds, his fingers sketch a portrait of his wife |
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She knew the legal eagle when his wings swept through the stars |
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Before he shut the furnace down and sealed away his heart |
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chorus: |
|
It's Gauguin gone Hollywood again |
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A sleeping giant inside a rabbit's skin |
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Tahitian doors beyond the painted veil |
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Another simple mind adrift |
|
Like Gauguin going Hollywood again |
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The day lacks color, days are duller than a butter knife |
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Rusty water running through hands out of touch with life |
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A man of independent means, he'd have us all believe |
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A soul who throws his wings away before he goes to sleep |
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(repeat chorus) |
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If only for a moment, the dead weight were alive |
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An invitation for the flame to shine a light inside |
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Illuminating darkness, giving him release |
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Then someday in his trash can we'll find a masterpiece |
|
(repeat chorus) |
|
Like Gauguin going Hollywood again |