Two guitars were left in a room all alone
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They sat on different corners of the parlor
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In this solitude they started talking to each other
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My strings are tight and full of tears
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The man who plays me has no heart
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I have seen it leave out of his mouth
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I have seen it melt out of his eyes
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It dives into the pores of the earth
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When they squeeze me tight I bring
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Down the angels who live off the chorus
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The trios singing loosen organs
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With melodious screwdrivers
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Sentiment comes off the hinges
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Because a song is a mountain put into
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Words and landscape is the feeling that
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Enters something so big in the harmony
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We are always in danger of blowing up
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With passion
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The other guitar:
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In 1944 New York
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When the Trio Los Panchos started
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With Mexican & Puerto Rican birds
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I am the one that one of them held
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Tight like a woman
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Their throats gardenia gardens
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An airport for dreams
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I've been in theaters and cabarets
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I played in an apartment on 102nd street
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After a baptism pregnant with women
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The men flirted and were offered
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Chicken soup
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Echoes came out of hallways as if from caves
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Someone is opening the door now
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The two guitars hushed and there was a
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Resonance in the air like what is left by
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The last chord of a bolero.
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