These tears I'm wailing, I spill not without reason. Remove them, my dearest love. Take me to the place I've been dreaming of, where the grotesquely lonely meet the grotesquely lonely and they whisper, just very softly, Please be mine, Dearest Love.
I used to dream, and I used to vow; I wouldn't dream of it now.
I've been dreaming of a time when The English are sick to death of Labour and Tories And spit upon the name Oliver Cromwell and denounce this royal line that still salutes him And will salute him forever.
I am stuck in the dream of an album that sells well not because of marketing, but because people like the songs.
I don't dream about anyone - except myself
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