(Verse 1)
The Manchester rain, a familiar stain, on a heart too heavy to bear.
Four lads in a room, chasing away the gloom, with a sound that cuts through the air.
A jangly guitar, a melodic scar, a rhythm that pulses and thumps.
A voice full of woe, a beautiful show, on borrowed and beautiful lumps.
(Chorus)
Oh, the Smiths, the Smiths, a beautiful myth, a truth in the lies that you told.
For a moment in time, a perfect design, a story that never gets old.
We danced in our gloom, in a bedsit room, to a tune for the sensitive souls.
The songs were our friends, 'til the very end, filling up all of our holes.
(Verse 2)
The papers they write, with venom and spite, of the words that they twist and they turn.
But you know what they say, on a miserable day, of a passion that never will burn.
A gladioli in hand, in a miserable land, a flower that wilts in the rain.
A whisper, a sigh, a tear in my eye, for a love that was written in pain.
(Chorus)
Oh, the Smiths, the Smiths, a beautiful myth, a truth in the lies that you told.
For a moment in time, a perfect design, a story that never gets old.
We danced in our gloom, in a bedsit room, to a tune for the sensitive souls.
The songs were our friends, 'til the very end, filling up all of our holes.
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