Saturday Morning, 3 AM

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I can hear the soft breathing of the girl that I love,
As she lies here beside me asleep with the night,
Her hair like a mist as it floats on my pillow,
reflecting the glow of a winter moonlight.

But she knows and I know that I’ll never be,
as good as the ones who came before me

So I’ll play my guitar and I’ll gently weep,
Drowning in my man made sea.

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