There are those who write their name on a list
but when the roll is called they do not come
Many buy a stereo, and a tune to play, or two
but the music remains boxed, never making a sound
Profession of love for the gray of rain
resounds from beneath the dry overhang
And love, that's what you called it, eh?
You summoned it sweetly, but then you hid your face
Run through the rain, let it melt your painted face
Sing a sweet song, sing it, whatever its name
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