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You were America’s little sweetheart,
your golden hair, your pale blue eyes,
the figure you cut from your gumless
mouth to your chubby thighs—

and now you’re pudgy all over with
a little double chin that ain’t so small—

you look like you swallowed a bowling ball.

Now when I kiss you, you start to choke
and me I’m down to my last joke.
it ain’t the reason I try when I say why—
I’m know, I’m only lookin’ for an excuse to cry.

‘Cause it only feels good when I cry,
each day another piece of me dies;
it should come as no surprise,
I know why and easily realize—
it only feels good when I cry.

Now it’s me, a bottle and the wind—
and I know before I begin,
it’s only the sound of pride,
impotent, posturing, afraid to decide—
the sound of a coward’s heart
taken apart, so before we start,
let me place firmly in your mind—
it only feels good when I cry.

It only feels good when I cry.
Each day another piece of me dies.
It shouldn’t come as a surprise,
it’s just me … please don’t tell me why …
‘cause it only, it only, it only, it only
feels good when I cry.

on a rocking horse, riding to the horizon
an endless ride, bouncing on steel springs
plastic pony he is alive aboard, a real horse,
that whinnies and pounds its hooves
in a timeless beat as he approaches
but never reaches the horizon

he is limp and ready to fall off
I hold him as his gaze fixes on a point far away
he urges his mount on, galloping, galloping
charging, serious, distant in his concentration

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