(Springfield)
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Hands old and poor, her back bent and sore,
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she lifts from the drawer,
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the photograph.
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Though tattered and torn, through years it has worn,
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but still bears the form of the man she knew.
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Her eyes are weak, spilling tears on her cheek.
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Her lips start to speak to the photograph.
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She tells him with pride, she still loves him inside.
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Though years ago died, la da da da...
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And all of the people she knew,
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Those who don't know the score say,
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We wonder why, she never married,
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such a pretty girl she was, such a lovely face she had,
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such a pretty thing she was...
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She turns to her right, to put out the light,
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and wishes goodnight to
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the photograph.
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Her love, though it's strong and lasted this long,
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and goes on and on
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she's still alone.
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The Photograph
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Rick Springfield |