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Sunday Morning Fool
par
Andrew Gold
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Angel eyes and wounded cries Are breaking Sunday morning fog Just the last remains Of the Saturday evening rains And the smell of champagne from the hall Old angel eyes, she breaks down Breaks down and cries I'm so tired of baby's blues I tell her so, and she walks out the door She hopes someone hurts me someday soon She says: lover, what you do to me You make me feel so bad You treat me like your old piano stool Twisted past, the breaking point And broken like the word I feel like a Sunday morning fool God help us, Sunday morning fools Demon's eyes - oh, they tear at They tear at my insides As them bells from St. John's ring Oh, words above: when you turn on stolen love Someone's gonna short change you someday Lover, what you do to me You make me feel so bad You treat me like your old piano stool Twisted past, the breaking point And broken like the word I feel like a Sunday morning fool God help us, Sunday morning fools And lover, what you do to me You make me feel so bad You treat me like your old piano stool Twisted past, the breaking point And broken like the word I feel like a Sunday morning fool I feel like a Sunday morning fool I feel like a Sunday morning...
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Ton pseudo sera publié. Laisses les champs vide pour rester anonyme.
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