A wonderful memoir of life

Carolyn

Chicago River is for lovers of poetry put to music. Close your eyes and let the words and music wash over you.

Esther

I had a dream about you last night! We were on vacation at some beach. I was walking along a path and saw you in the distance, sitting on some rocks with your guitar, singing. Lots of people standing around. My thought was, “Oh, there’s Lee. I’ll have to tell him I listened to his CD.”

Tricia

I am a lyric guy, obviously, and yours did not disappoint. You are a great storyteller.

Brian

As soon as my girlfriend saw the album in the house, she commandeered it and has been listening to it nonstop!

Josh

I don’t know anyone in the world that does music like you.  Fearless – as it should be.

Corky

In my book you got Taylor Swift beat

Joan

Raw in emotion and intent

Bobbie

Yeah I liked the chimes.

Bill

I’m guessing Sondheim influenced some of your rhymes in these lyrics 

Deb

Wonderful memories, so glad you did this

Pat

Run away with me

Hugh

Not Knowing (Intro) (2017) : A bit of noise.

Not knowing where I’m going,
seems I’d rather look back. 

lyrics

Chicago River (2015) : The first writing exercise at the first-ever meeting of Words on Water, founded by Gwen Mayes, was to write about a place we lived near water. “Chicago River” grew out of that exercise.

From the twenty-first floor
I look down upon the Chicago River.
My apartment is white, all glass, no drapes 
framing steel and stone and terra cotta—and a January sky.

	My crummy job is just a couple blocks away
	along the river, seventh floor.

	The CEO’s a shark; he made me cut my hair.
	He thinks I’m going to find new clients. Ha!

Hidden somewhere between towers
a tiny wedge of the lake fades into Indiana
from the green Chicago River.
Green, not just on Saint Paddy’s Day.
There’s a pool on the roof, Mac’s in the lobby.
The doorman teases me.

	I take commuter trains to visit mom and dad.
	My mother wants me to move home.

	My boss thinks he’s my friend.
	We drink a lot of beer
	not only on Saint Paddy’s Day.

From the twenty-first floor
we look down upon the Chicago River—
the green Chicago River.
It isn’t a spring green—more of a slime green,
project consultant green—kind of a mean green.

		(INSTRUMENTAL)

	My nephews visited. We threw big chunks of ice
	off of the State Street bridge and nuked that river.

	My nieces visited.
	They played house.

From the twenty-first floor
every night I look across the river.
I rearrange the letters in the giant neon signs:
PEPSI, PIPES; DELTA, DEALT.

	Another bridge goes up
	to let a tiny sailboat with a giant mast pass by.
	He's going somewhere.  He's going somewhere. 

lyrics

To Be Afraid (2017) : I was so traumatized by my eighth-grade nun that I’ve forgotten her name. I very unfairly used the name of my seventh-grade nun in this song.

In Sister Thomas Mary's classroom
I was never bored.
We good kids learned to diagram dependent clauses,
the rest to fear the Lord.

Thunderstorms were just the best!
Mom would sit me down. Our stoop faced west.
We'd root for tree trunks cracked and great green gloom.
We'd ooh and ahh, count thousands, from flash to boom.

	She never wanted me to be afraid
	of anything.

When she'd leave to fix our dinner,
my friends and I, the Saints and Sinners,
would go get drunk on ozone,
dodge raindrops, get blown away.
I’d hope for meatloaf or macaroni.

	She never wanted me to be afraid
	of anything, not even thunder, not even lightning.

On good-boy days we’d save our town by being extra pious,
yelling "Jesus Mary Joseph, Save Us” after every thunder.
On bad-boy days we’d hug tree trunks
and dare Jesus to fry us. 
If sister'd seen she'd have Monsignor tear our heads asunder.

	Mom never wanted me to be afraid
	of anyone, not even priests, not even nuns. 

We’d pray for Wayne's house to be struck
and Wayne the Pain to burn;
ask Lucifer to flood room 7B;
beg God to send a twister to suck 
Sister Thomas Mary up
out of her convent, off to Missouri.


	Mom never wanted me to be afraid.
	And when I was,
	she took off work
	and took on Sister Thomas Mary.
	She took on Sister Thomas Mary!
	Who learned
	that day,
	in seventh grade,
	to be afraid.
 

lyrics

Math Lab (2017) : My high school’s math lab was my safe haven.

Ryan M. Cullen of Annapolis Audio Lab

My high school’s new: all brick and steel
and glass weirdos walk into.
At the center: the academics building.
At its center: the math department.
At its center:

	SIMILE:
	Math Lab. Math Lab!
	Like a radiation-shielded artificially enclosed lunar 		cavern: you can fly.
	Leave—they’ll scour you with regolith and suck 		your insides out; you’ll be freeze-dried.

Smells of mimeos, new books, white paint, no windows, no cliques, no jocks,
as far from locker rooms as I can get, just me and algebra and Russell’s paradox.
No teens, sometimes a teacher seeking colored chalk who doesn’t want to talk.

	CHORUS:
	If you have problems,
	Math lab has solutions,
	techniques like substitution.
	Equations: solved.
	Contradictions: resolved.
	Theorems: proved (V equals four thirds pi r cubed).
	Zippers (like the one in the front of your pants)
	ripped? (coulda been bad, as bad as the dance)
	Binder-clipped. Ouch!

	(repeat SIMILE)

No phones, no former friend, no freshman dance disaster,
just abstract shapes in perfect plastic or polished plaster,
where I can contemplate what it means to rotate
a single-sided polygon embedded in Euclidean or non-,
paraboloids, hyperboloids of one or two sheets, and future world-famous mathletes.

	(CHORUS)

 

lyrics

I Love to See (1970) : This little ditty about life in the dorm is one of my earliest fragments, before I figured out how to write a whole song. In 2017 the University of Illinois put the sounds of the carillon in the math building, Altgeld Hall, online. I incorporated them into this recording. I love the juxtaposition of serious math and dorm silliness.

I love to see
everybody
stumbling ‘bout 
in the morning,
shouting down the hall,
talking about the ball
they had last night.
Water fight.
What a byte.

 

lyrics

City Cat (1977) : I wrote this when I lived in Chicago and would perform open mic at Somebody Else’s Troubles. Little did I know that I was a future cat fan.

City Cat she’s so cool
City Cat ain’t no fool
City Cat can be so cruel
How’d you like to be like that City Cat?

Kitty got jet-black fur
Kitty move like a blur
Kitty got such a sexy purr
How’d you like to be like that City Cat?

	CHORUS:
	City Cat prowls in Hades
	City Cat growls at ladies
	City Cat howls and suffocates babies

City Cat she’s so cool
City Cat ain’t no fool
City Cat can be so cruel
How’d you like to be like that City Cat?

Kitty got bright red claws
Kitty got velvet paws
Kitty ain’t got no fatal flaws
How’d you like to be like that City Cat?

	(CHORUS)
		(INSTRUMENTAL)

City Cat got to roam
City Cat live alone
Kitty can’t get no lovin’ at home
I don’t want to be like that City Cat (let me tell ya)
I don’t want to be like that City Cat

City Cat chewing gum
lappin’ up Coke and rum
City Cat, where you comin’ from?
How’d you get to be like that, City Cat? (please tell me)
How’d you get to be like that, City Cat?
 

lyrics

In and Out of Love (1989) : I think this was me trying to write a different love song. I’m not sure which of several friends’ love lives inspired it. With the decadence of a fade-out ending!

In and out of love
Serious, mysterious love
We’re in and out of love.
This time I’m in but you’re out of love.

	Combing my house for every vestige of you
	Eliminating every trace
	Clearing your closet and your medicine shelf
	Leaving them empty just in case
		Knowing we’re always falling

In and out of love
Glorious, precarious love
We’re in and out of love.
This time I’m in but you’re out of love.

	Looking for every book that I would not buy
	Taking our favorite photo down
	Sorting the cereal and shampoo and wine
	Saving it all for our next round
		Knowing we’re always falling

In and out of love

		We’re in; you’re out.
		You’re in; I’m out; I’m in;
		you’re out.

		We’re in; you’re out.
		I’m in; you’re out.
		You’re in; I’m out; I’m in;
		you’re out; we’re in; we’re

in and out of love.
Dangerous, delirious love

	Our lives are synchronizing less frequently.
	You love me intermittently.
	I promise I will love you when you love me,
	but only periodically.

lyrics

Southern Indiana (1970 and 2013) : One day in college I was so frustrated at my inability to finish a song I decided to write a complete song, no matter how short, simple, and lousy, that very day. I looked to my roommate, recently engaged to be married, and wrote what I called “Gibson City Wedding Song,” but which everyone else called “Granny.” I hated it but my family loved it and forced me to play it for years. In 2013, when I lived in Bloomington, Indiana, I added the “Southern Indiana” parts and don’t hate the combination nearly as much.

Granny’s sittin’ rockin’ and the
cornfields are a poppin’ and I
catch you looking over my way.
	Though your face is in the sunshine 
	pretty soon it’ll be nighttime hey hey.

Now the sun has done its sinkin’
and the stars are up there blinkin’
and I’m wonderin’ just what do I say?
	It’s sure a lovely evening for a stroll
	for miles around there ain’t another living soul.

		CHORUS:

		Here in southern Indiana
		we got hills and forests, and a
		lotta good hardworking people
		sleeping underneath a steeple.  (I do.)

		We hate Indy we hate Gary
		and a farmer’s free to marry.
		We eat sugar-cream pie.
		We shoot hoops and we fry biscuits.  

Now I’m takin’ you out walkin’
and I don’t feel like just talkin’
so I’m sending my lips over your way.
	I can see your face a gettin’ red
	what color will it be your weddin’ day?

By the window granny’s sittin’
and her hands are busy knittin’
but her eyes are lookin’ over our way.
	I’m a laughin’ you’re a blushin’
	and your finger is a hushin’ me
	I’ll see you Sunday mornin’ gee
	it’s gonna be a lovely weddin’ day.

		(CHORUS)

Granny’s sittin’ rockin’ and the
cornfields are a poppin’ and I
catch you looking over my way.
	I can see your face a gettin’ red
	what color will it be your weddin’
	I’m a laughin’ you’re a blushin’
	and your finger is a hushin’
	see you Sunday mornin’ gee
	it’s gonna be a lovely weddin’ day.

lyrics

Forget Cleveland (1994) : A Midwest guy is worried that his girlfriend will be so taken by her first business trip to the big city that she won’t come home to him. No idea what inspired this.

	Forget Cleveland
	Forget August
	Forget him
	Forget what’s-his-name

	Forget sunsets
	on Lake Erie
	Forget sailing the Cuyahoga
	Forget that night

Remember the guy who is always polite
Maybe not Mister Excitement
Who spends his day battling subroutines
And sleeps in a condo he never cleans
And doesn't make speeches but says what he means

	Forget Cleveland
	Forget August
	Forget suits
	Forget businessmen

	Forget banquets
	keynote speakers
	Forget fame
	Forget conferences
	Forget what’s-his-name

Remember the guy who is always there
I mean always here for you forget Cleveland
Remember the guy who is boring but nice
when you think about vows and veils and rice
remember the guy with the brilliant advice:
Forget Cleveland

		Analyze alibis
		Count the lies
		or try nice guys

		Forget Cleveland
		Forget big cities
		and vice-chairmen
		of subcommittees

		Remember
		Nebraska
		The Big Skies
		Us nice guys

	Forget Cleveland
	Forget August
	and that night 
	and that orchestra

	your hotel
	your first flight
	the great view
	Forget what’s-his-name
	He's forgotten you

Remember the guy who won’t leave you alone
The boring guy bothering you on the phone
Who'd never do what he did
Who's always nice
Who thinks a wife and kids and home
would be paradise

		Forget Cleveland
		Forget Cleveland
		Remember
		Nebraska
		Forget Cleveland

lyrics

Whoever Lives Here Now (1996) : Once I decided the theme of this album was “home / time & place,” I remembered this song from 1996, about being stuck in a detour near my ex’s old apartment. All I had was a lyric sheet with chords, so I had to reconstruct the melody. I was surprised by notes on the lyric sheet: “hurdy-gurdy in Cm” and “Look at Sean.” This suggests that Bob (hurdy-gurdy) and Sean (recorder) and I actually performed this nearly-forgotten piece.

        I try to avoid this neighborhood.
	It’s evil; it’s haunted; it’s not good.
	But thanks to the County of DuPage
	where detours with detours are all the rage
	I sit here looking at holes in the ground,
	stuck on your street in this rush-hour race,
	watching the road crew just standing around
	taking up space next to your old place.

Whoever lives here now
keeps a bike on the balcony
just like you.

Whoever lives here now
has a rusty old barbecue
just like you.

	Whoever calls this work zone home
	owns a telephone.
	Whoever lives here probably
	will not disappear.

Whoever lives here now
seems to love plants too.
Whoever lives here now
has a brand-new view:

	The field where I crashed your stunt kite
	is now a giant Priced-Rite.
	A jug of wine, a loaf of bread and thou.
	Twenty-four hour convenience for
	whomever lives here now.

Whoever lives here now
keeps their vertical blinds closed
just like you.

Whoever lives here now
doesn’t wash windows
just like you.

	Whoever calls this work zone home
	owns a telephone.
	Whoever lives here probably
	will not disappear.

Whoever lives here now
isn’t you.
Whoever lives here now
	is probably that beer-gut standing around
	taking up space next to your old place.

lyrics

I’d Rather Live in Chicago (1977) : I love living in the heart of the big city but Fate wants me to reside in suburbia. I love walking to the library and grocery store but Fate wants me to drive there.

I wanna look like a lumberjack 
in my red plaid flannel shirt,
but I don’t wanna chop down trees; 
those blisters and callouses hurt.

I wanna look like a lumberjack
in my stocking cap and jeans,
but I don’t wanna live in no
lumber camp barracks; those men are mean.

	I might like to live in the North country
	and be free and philosophize,
	but I’d rather live in Chicago
	where it’s civilized.

I wanna look like a Tahitian man
with my deep, dark, golden tan,
but I don’t want eat no bananas and guavas
and paint like Gauguin.

I wanna look like a Tahitian child
stark naked to the core,
but I don’t wanna step on sea urchins
and Portuguese Men-of-War.

	I might like to live on a South Sea isle
	and watch the sun god rise,
	but I’d rather live in Chicago
	where it’s civilized.

I wanna look like a college student
and plan a panty raid,
but I don’t wanna bring back the 60s,
all-nighters, term papers, and grades.

	I didn’t mind living in a dorm with 
	seven hundred guys,
	and fourteen million dollars-worth
	of stereo hi-fi’s
	with Dolby-A and -B and
	decibels unequalized,
	but I’d rather live in Chicago
	where it’s civilized.

I wanna look like a businessman
in my three-piece suit and tie,
but I don’t want no martini-wheeling-and-dealing;
I’d rather die.

	I might like to live in suburbia
	suffering sub-prime rate deflation.
	But I’d rather live in high style and sophistication
	in the skyscraper city
	that’s still second best in the nation:
	no flannel, no fauna, no finals, no stock fluctuation.
	Yeah, I’d rather live in the utmost,
	on lovely Lake Michigan’s left coast.
	Yeah, I’d rather live in Chicago,
	that outpost of civilization.

lyrics

Exit 27 (2013) : I wrote this on one of many long drives from Indiana to Maryland, thinking about superhighways and EXIT signs and trucks.

I used to drive this interstate
and dream about a decent bed.
I’d do my best to stay awake
and chuckle at a sign that said:

	No food
	No lodging
	No Attractions
	Exit 27
	1 mile

	No food
	No lodging
	No Attractions
	Exit 27

I stopped to help someone in need,
but couldn’t fix your frozen line.
Offered a ride and you agreed.
We turned off at that sorry sign:

	No food
	No lodging
	No Attractions
	Exit 27
	1 mile

	No food
	No lodging
	No Attractions
	Exit 27

We got into a sweet routine.
Each Friday I’d get off at three.
I didn’t think; I should have seen
you needed more than feeding me

	fried chicken apple pie
	clean sheets a soft warm body
	mutual attraction
	exit twenty-seven
	heaven	

	fried biscuits sausages
	a pile of sheets and pillows
	animal attraction
	exit twenty-seven
	heaven

I always hoped, I even prayed,
we’d fix it, give it one more shot.
I never thought I’d see the day
when exit twenty-seven’s got 

	No food
	No lodging
	No Attractions
	Exit 27
	1 mile

	No food
	No lodging
	No Attractions
	Exit 27

	Diesel

lyrics

I’m Here You’re There (1999) : Definitely inspired by my husband Bob’s many trips. But as I often say, my songs are inspired by facets of my life but are not my diary: considerations like rhythm and rhyme and making things interesting trump truth.

Bob Green and Lee Chapman

        CHORUS:
	It’s not that I don’t miss you,
	it’s not that I don’t care,
	it’s not that I don’t love you,
	
	it’s only that
	I’m here;
	you’re there.

It’s not that I think sometimes
we’re not the perfect pair;
it’s not that I’m not coupled,
it’s only that
I’m here;
you’re there.

I’m here with the rush-hour
jerks on the Eisenhower.
You’re there eating croissant
and climbing the Eiffel Tower.
	You're all high style
	and glitz; my life's
	the pits.

	(CHORUS)

You're there, trying hard to 
forget about Februaries.
I'm here in a blizzard
enjoying obituaries.
	I lose all my files
	while you cruise the Greek Isles
	on a yacht.

	(CHORUS)
	(INSTRUMENTAL)

I'm here on the couch in the den
playing some new CD.
You're here on the couch in the den
reading world history.

	The czars, guitars,
	the Doors, world wars
	the Blitz.

	(CHORUS)

lyrics

Stay Outta My Space (2017) : The gym is a pain in so many ways. This started as an essay but morphed into a song. At one point it was all sung but I replaced the most boring sung parts with spoken word. At one point the young women were an old guy’s stereotype but my friend Carrie suggested I could do better, so I rewrote them and the narrator.

Lee narrating an introduction and an analysis of “Stay Outta My Space” from Chicago River (2018).

CHORUS:
Stay outta my space.
if you're a member of the human race,
stay outta my space.
Unless you're someone I might care to embrace
stay outta my space.
Unless we're running to first or second base
stay outta my space.


I don't wanna see the pores on your face.
I don't wanna watch 'em open and close.
Though there are just a few,
I don't wanna count the hairs in your nose.
Eww!

I'm at the gym, approaching seven treadmills.
one and seven are occupied by people thinking,
"Stay outta my space."
While I'm choosing, a big guy passes me.
If he takes three, I'll take five;
the four of us'll be two treadmill apart.
If he takes five, I'll take three;
the four of us'll be two treadmills apart.
But he is a greedy.
He takes four.
The greedy bastard!
So everybody who's already there is three treadmills apart,
but what about me?

What can I do?
No matter which I take,
I'm next to someone.
My workout's ruined.

I take three.
The greedy guy give me a dirty look: Stay outta my space!
I hope he hates the hairs in my nose.
I hope that my deodorant fails.
I hope that his doesn't.

(CHORUS)

I don't wanna one-on-one interface.
I don't want to smell these people's colognes.
And lest you misconstrue,
I don't wanna smell type two pheromones.
Eww!

Three girls, in neon sports bras (chatting, chatting, chatting),
About their kids,
About their jobs,
The books they're reading,
Next year's elections --
They approach the treadmills.
One takes two; the others five and six and keep on chatting.
Not about boys.
(They keep on chatting.)
Not about clothes.
(Chatting, chatting, chatting)

I try to ignore them;
(The keep on chatting.)
And focus on FOXNews:
(Chatting, chatting, chatting)
Trump good.
(They keep on chatting.)
Hillary bad.

lyrics

Paradise (2017) : I wrote this while working out in the pool at our resort in Cancun, which is nothing like the place described in the song.

Bob, Tutu, and Lee

CHORUS:
The water’s cold.
The palm tree’s dead.
That isn’t dirt, it’s mold.
That millipede has reached my bed.
The sun has never shone.
The fish last night was mostly bone.
There’s no convenient place to charge my phone.
Their promises of paradise were somewhat overblown.
Their promises of paradise were somewhat overblown.

We always loved this beach.
Everybody got along—more or less.
From physicists to farmers,
politicians to the press,
from football fans to operaphiles,
from stars to their chauffeurs,
even chiropractors, even used car sales managers. 

It wasn't perfect, but we were making progress.
And now new management has promised paradise.
For free.
We bought it—and now we pay the price.
They're piling up our sand dollars;
we got what we deserved.
For example, lately I've observed:
(CHORUS)

lyrics

Float Little Snowflake (1979) : I didn’t play this much until recently. I think I considered it way uncool. But now I’m so old I’m beyond cool. This was my mother-in-law Tutu’s (Hawaiian for “grandparent”) second-favorite song of mine. I sang it at her funeral.

CHORUS:
	Float little snowflake
	Float by my window so I can see
	I know the last place you want to be
	is on the ground
	Float while you can little snowflake
	You’ve got to do what you’ve gotta do
	Life can be fun if you want it to
	so stick around

Maybe you’ll land in a treetop
and look so pretty
painters will paint you
and poets gush

Maybe you’ll land on a sidewalk
and scare old ladies
amaze new babies
with your cold touch

	(CHORUS)

Maybe you’ll land in my backyard
live in a snowball
If you’re good packing
you’ll fly again

Please cream my dumb little brother
not another window
Help ambush buses
and mailmen

	(CHORUS)

Maybe you’ll land in a mud puddle
melt right away
All little snowflakes
must melt someday

lyrics

Joan Bone (1978) : I don’t know why I wrote a song about my thin sister-in-law Joan and her sisters. I don’t know why anyone outside my immediate family would like it, but people do. It was Tutu’s favorite song of mine—she made me promise to sing it at her funeral.

Joan and Beau Chapman

	CHORUS:
	Joan Bone on the phone
	If it ain’t busy, she ain’t home
	Joan Bone, monotone
	She’s permanently tuned to the dial tone

Her sister Judy lives in Phoenix, Arizona
with a dozen lovely children to discuss
“The second from the youngest had the flu last week
and Thursday number seven missed her bus”

The wires overloaded periodically
Ma Bell of Illinois was going into debt
until the FCC OK’d a special satellite
in a stationary orbit over Joliet

	(CHORUS)
Her sister Jeannie lives beneath a water tower
In case of flood, tornado, hurricane, or war
if her telephone should ever lose its power
she’ll climb up there and they’ll communicate by semaphore

	(CHORUS)

lyrics

Assisted Living (2017) : Tutu lived to be 100 years old. Whereas I usually feel free to invent things, every detail of this is true.

Every picture’s crooked.
Her favorite kitty photo’s lost.
Her last lei is turning brown 
in my mother-in-law’s assisted-living facility.

Cable’s on the fritz.
Her oxygen tank’s beeping
while we're playing ukuleles 
in my mother-in-law’s assisted-living facility.

Ninety-nine, one hundred:
will she make it to Thanksgiving?
Where will Christmas be this year?
In my mother-in-law’s assisted-living facility?

She thinks she baked us cookies.
She’s planning her next cruise.
When we’re alone she tells me
dying one inch at a time is for the birds.

lyrics

Not Knowing (1972) : How strange that at age 21 I was waxing nostalgic about childhood.

Tom Yeiser of Sweet Owen Sound

Not knowing where I’m going,
seems I’d rather look back.

Every year we slept out
running around the tent in the dark
without any clothes on.
Three times around.

Every night we stayed out for hours
taking a leak on Mildred’s flowers.
Mary’s too.
“Hey you!
What are you kids doing out this late?”
Can’t you see we’re running straight for home!

Didn’t seem so great then,
but I always had at least one friend.
Sometimes two.
Once three.

Don’t know what my life holds for me,
but I do know what it used to be.

Not knowing where I’m going,
seems I’d rather—

Once we all went skinny-dipping at night in Mike’s pool.
What a fright when Gigi came out too
to tell us it was getting dark.
Mike said we knew.
We’d be in soon.
Please go away!
Please go away, Gigi.
Please go away.

Don’t know what Who’s Who will have to say
but I do remember yesterday and it

didn’t seem so great at the time
but every year we made a trip to Riverview.
Sometimes two.
Once three.

Not knowing where I’m going,
seems I’d rather look at the past, not the future.
Taking a look at the past, 
forgetting all about the future,
and trying to get those trunks back on
before Gigi sees everything.
Please go away!
Please go away, Gigi.
Please go away.

lyrics

I Gotta Have My Key (1979) : I’m a serious homebody. I’d be happy never to leave this house.

Lee Chapman

The only thing I care about’s
the key to my back door.
Before I go out,
that’s the only thing I spend time looking for.
Though I can leave
umbrellas, wallets, gloves, and combs at home;
without that key I’d never, ever, roam.

	CHORUS:
	I gotta have my key
	‘cause I’m a crybaby.
	I gotta know I can come home
	whenever I start to go crazy.

I don’t think I could venture out
into the cold, cruel world
without that piece of golden metal in my palm,
with fingers curled.
And if I lost it I would offer everything I own.
I don’t think I could face the world alone.

	(CHORUS)

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