by Dean Friedman
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I fumble in my pockets for the keys to your fickle heart.
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I drop them on the ground and then surprise, surprise you pick 'em up.
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So I stand in the doorway wearing my patented foolish grin.
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'til finally you take pity on my poor soul and you let me in.
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The time has come. Soon the ramparts will be overrun
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I hang my hurt in the hallway and follow you up the stairs.
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You leave a scattered trail of clothes straight up to your room.
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For a couple of hours the planets from their paths they stray,
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and every sense is filled with your sweet perfume.
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And when you come, it's with such power, I am overcome.
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Sandy, won't you ever make up your mind?
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The love you're trying so hard find
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is standing right in front of you.
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Don't you see that what you're searching for
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is waiting right outside this door?
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All you have to do is listen to your love.
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You sit up and turn on the TV with the remote control,
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you flip through fifty seven channels but nothing's on.
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And so you head into the kitchen and come back with a box of Oreos,
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and arrange them on the bed like checkers all in a row.
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And one by one, you make sure and sample everyone.
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Sandy, won't you ever make up your mind?
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The love you're trying so hard find
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is standing right in front of you.
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Don't you see that what you're searching for
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is waiting right outside this door?
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All you have to do is listen to your love.
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Sandy
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Dean Friedman |