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Broughton-Mason-Thomas |
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No... No golden mile |
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Or flashing cameras, the ritzy style |
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Just ... just scrap book smiles. |
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There's no need to hurry, when all she has is time |
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She, she, she, she's going home |
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Between the pagodas and always alone |
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Down on Sunset Boulevard, you'd sell your soul before your car is paid for. |
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The only laughing sound you hear, from blind men cause they hold no fear of darkness |
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With every flashing theatre light, a startled welcome through the night is glowing. |
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But every mother's son is dead, they choked upon the daily bread they prayed for. |
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Friends... friends pass on by. |
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She gives a performance, they call it a lie. |
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Only ... only late at night. |
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She still sees the traces of the city lights |
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Sun Sun ... Sun ... Sunset Boulevard, the devil can take her, she's been there before |
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By the broken ballistrade, an idol from another age is swaying |
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Softly singing Gershwin songs, but every other note is wrong and straining. |
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And once again her glass is dry, the bedroom mirror cannot lie forever |
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For down on Sunset Boulevard they've lived too long and laughed too hard to love her |
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The telephone is ringing ... but there's no reply |
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A gramophone is singing ... sweetly out of time. |
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And in the hall, screaming for the final scene ... |
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Passing through their eyes, peering for the view. |
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With her name in lights, The lady's news. |
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And in her sleep they call her... loving every smile |
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Lining every street to see her . . . starry eyed and wild. |
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Again she wakes, screaming for the final scene. |
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Passing through their eyes, peering for the view. |
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With her name in lights, The lady's news. |