No way
You wouldn't want to have it on your own
You wouldn't want to keep it if you found out it's
Empty under the feathers somehow
I know what you're waiting for
We'll drive away in your car
In the nighttime pacific shore
I'll be Bukowski and you'll be Helen of Troy
No way
I couldn't give the calendar to you
I couldn't cover up the walls of your house with
Touched-up pictures of what we have to do
I know what you're waiting for
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