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Emily, Emily, Stop muscling in on my fantasies I used to be free but now all I can see When I close my eyes is Emily
Emily, Emily I’m going to send you the bill for my psychiatry I know it’s lyrically lazy, but you’re driving me crazy Won’t you leave me one last shred of dignity
The Doc says I’m some kind of sapiosexual But that diagnosis is quite ineffectual I do sometimes fancy feminine intellectuals But it’s birds that can sing That are really my thing
Emily, Emily, I’m in awe of your musical abilities You mostly sing Haydn and Poulenc but I bet That you’d be at home with some Tammy Wynette
I’d love to sing with you, a wee open mic The voice of an angel to sugar my shite It worked for Gram and Emmylou Why can’t it work for me and you?
You’ve got a great sense of humour, you’re pretty and kind But they’re not the things that drive me out of my mind My desire is inflated like a fucking balloon Because you’re a gal who can carry a tune