Into the blund'ring world of statistics
I raise my hand and ask questions of you
Like what's the odds on us being spastics
And throwing away all the love we knew?
Say five to one, but two to one is less,
Or is it evens that we will survive?
Forty-seven percent divorce God-bless
The little lovers trying to survive.
You walk down the street thinking about this
You're all alone and only want to cry
And half these couples when they stop and kiss
Might just as well be kissing sweet goodbye.
But I think that the odds are on our side,
When I told you "...I need a break." I lied.
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