| White picket fences
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| Barbed wire and trenches
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| Trick or treat, merry Christmas
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| Howdy neighbor, thank you, Jesus
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| Oh, what is he building in that painted lady?
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| A participation trophy wife or blonde, blue-eyed baby?
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| Wide-eyed and wired, the snap-crackle-pop of the Geiger
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| Camouflage billboards for lead-lined Brooks Brothers
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| You elbow the jukebox and sing «Duck and Cover»
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| And breed out our incisors, feed on white wine and Pfizer
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| It don’t look like survival, b-but buy now or die
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| Suburbia
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| You’re not alone
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| The lights are on
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| But no one’s home
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| So, welcome home
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| Myers-Briggs, OKULTRA
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| Takes a village to fake a whole culture
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| Your ear to the playground, your eye on the ball
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| Your head in the gutter, your brains on the wall
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| Home is where the heart is
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| You ain’t homeless, but you’re heartless
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| It’s the safest on the market
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| But you still gotta watch where you park it
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| So give me your half-life crisis
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| I can tell that you know where paradise is
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| Where parasites don’t care what your blood type is
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| Only pheromones and serotonin decide
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| If it’s true that a snowflake only matters in a blizzard
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| Everyone knows that nobody knows that
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| Everybody’s all up in my, everybody’s all up in my
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| Everybody’s all up in my business
|
| Suburbia
|
| Where you belong
|
| The lights are on
|
| But no one’s home
|
| So, welcome home
|
| Ch-ch-chameleon peacocks are talk of the town
|
| Well, word gets around on hit number stations
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| He cums radiation
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| The dog bites the postman while basement eyes dream
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| Of a night at the drive-in with an AR-15
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| I dropped my eyeballs in the bonfire, we fucked on a bed of nails
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| I caught Kuru from your sister and died laughing in jail
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| Smell those screaming teenage sweetbreads on the 4th of July grill
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| Smile and wave, boys, kiss the cook, live laugh and love, please pass the pills
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| It’s only culture, it’s only culture
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| It’s only culture, sulfur, smoke, and soot
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| You learned to torture house cats like vultures
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| You cocked and sucked your lack of empathy, pulled the trigger with your foot
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| to prove you’ve got
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| Blood, didn’t they want your blood?
|
| So why apologize for being blue and cold?
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| Blood, didn’t they want your blood?
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| So don’t apologize when you turn blue and cold
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| It’s only culture, it’s only culture
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| It’s only ah, ah, ah, ah
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| Culture’s not your friend
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| Hey, fuck your culture, I ain’t got no culture
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| It’s only culture, and it’s more afraid of you than you are of it
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| Go on, drink that
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| Blood, didn’t they want your blood?
|
| So why apologize when you turn blue and cold?
|
| Blood, didn’t they want your blood?
|
| So don’t apologize for being blue and cold
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| Were you Nabokov to a Salinger?
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| Jung to Freud or Das to a Leary?
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| Were you mother, daughter, subject, and author?
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| You don’t make the rules, you just write them down and do it by the book you
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| throw around
|
| Do you know the difference between blazing trails and slash-and-burn?
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| Going against the grain and catching splinters?
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| You pull out your Rorschach like a paint-by-numbers treasure map
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| The ink upon your jigsaw piece trace you back to your fingerprints
|
| Well Lot he had his lot in life, Job his job and I guess you’ll too, and die
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| The Lord looked down, said, «hey, you’re only mortal»
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| Giveth and taketh away 'til things come out a certain way
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| Leave you wondering when they might go back to normal
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| Leave you wondering why they can’t have just been normal |