Monday night, going mental
And she's almost grown
Left a silver suitcase
By a telephone
I'd close the bedroom window
But the bird has flown
Monday night, going mental
And she's almost grown
Friday night, when she's fallen
And she's fallen hard
Shame it's not for a good one
Not a shining star
Some were supposed to suffer
But it's who we are
Friday night, when she's fallen
And she's fallen hard
Sick of saying
Sick of saying
Sick of saying
Something sweet...
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