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Shakespeare's Monkeys

Infinite Monkeys. Infinite Typewriters.

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The personal space of Róbbi Skæra

This is a song I'm working on.
as she enters thee bar,
all thee drinkers gape and swoon,
and their girlfriends whisper rumours
in thee corner ov thee room,
and she mimes a quiet curse
on all thee men that have found her,
with a smile on her lips
as thee trees fall down around her.


           A                       Bm
and you're not thee only one she's hurt,
A                            Bm
everybody wants to kill that girl,
C            Bm                  A
everyone who knows her wants her dead,
C            Bm                  A
everyone who knows her wants her dead.

she opens thee front door
and disappears down thee road,
with a camera a hipflask
concealed within her coat,
and thee pavement's packed
with thee men that surround her,
in a dream ov her own,
whilst thee rain pours down around her.

           A                       Bm
and you're not thee only one she's hurt,
A                            Bm
everybody wants to kill that girl,
C            Bm                  A
everyone who knows her wants her dead,
C            Bm                  A
everyone who knows her wants her dead.

there's mascara on her cheek
but as she walks, she sings
and what little light is left
bounces and flickers off her rings
as thee tears fall in thee hands
ov every man she discovered
as she lies on thee road
and thee smoke rises from her.
A                     Bm                 
A                     Bm                 
C            Bm                  A
C            Bm                  A





it needs a .... you know, a tune.
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