| When I was a kid I grew up in a house on a hill
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| Not the top, not the bottom, but the middle
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| And I still remember where I cracked my head
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| In the vacant lot, there’s a row of tiny houses there now
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| And we used to light fires in the gutters
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| And I could cool my head on the concrete steps
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| But the girl down the street hit my sister on the head
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| With a stick and we hid behind my father
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| As he knocked on the parents' door
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| To tell them what she did
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| But the parents were drunk so they really didn’t give a shit
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| And the girl down the street said a dog couldn’t bark
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| 'Cause a man with an axe cut its voicebox out
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| But my older sister told me that it prob’ly wasn’t true
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| And I believe what she said 'cause she took me by the hand
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| One time when a coupla men drove down the hill in a white van
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| Said there was a phone box filled with money 'round the corner
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| And I woulda gone along but she took me by the hand
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| To the house in the middle of the hill
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| In the middle of the hill, in the middle of the hill
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| And my mother knew the words to a lot of different songs
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| And we’d always sing the harmonies, yeah we’d sing along
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| She had cold, cold hands when the fever hit
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| And then the noises that the trains made sounded like people in my head
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| And the stories that the ceiling told
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| Through the pictures and the grains in the pine-wood boards
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| And let me stay outside 'til the sky went red
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| And I could cool my head on the concrete steps
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| And you could never really see the top from the bottom
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| But I don’t pay enough attention to the good things when I got 'em
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| And you could never really see the top from the bottom
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| I don’t pay enough attention to the good things when I got 'em (x 4) |