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I was born yesterdayAnd I believe all that you sayI have no choiceI must obeyYouIs this the first or the second dayOf the rest of my lifeWell, hey!Why should I careEither wayIf what you say is true?Saturday morningEighteenth of DecemberI cannot remember the last time that I sawSuch a young ballerinaIn love with the lovelessIn tune with a tuneless old upright pianoStanding on pointGoing through each positionWith gentle precisionShe measures each movementHer classical features and elegant waistlineAre going to waste while she pleases her parentsII was born yesterday And I believe all that you sayI have no choiceI must obeyYouI have a question:Is this the first or the second dayOf the rest of my lifeWell, hey, hey!Why should I careEither wayIf what you say is true?What if they die on the road to RathminesWhere a dog in two minds times his run to perfectionAn orphan at last, she'd be sick in the loo bowlThen go to the funeralAnd cry by the gravesideAnd then sleep with the first man she seesAnd she'd catch some disease that she'd give to her doctorShe'd cook her own breakfast, and she'd cook his as wellAnd both get on swell, even though he was marriedYou are a part of meI am a part of youWhy should I let you walkAll over me?