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I dream about you.
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I... was starting to believe you weren't real.
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Who are you?
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Some kind of carnival quick-draw artist, are we?
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Perched and peeking in a window.
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Scratch out the visage of some poor lonely sod,
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and then bump into him
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as if you're his long-lost lover.
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Tongue in his ear, hand in his pocket, I bet.
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It's a nice play, luv, but I think I'll sit this one out.
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No. It's the dirty blond hair.
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The curled lip.