| I’ll sing you a song that starts out descriptive
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| And locates a time and a place
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| Like a dinner table where a whole family
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| Is just sitting down to say grace
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| An old old song that moves into action
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| Taking its sweet sweet time
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| And waits until we all say amen
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| Again and again in rhyme
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| It’s the story of a father and a mother
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| Who battle each other over nothin'
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| With a couple of kids trying to figure
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| Which way the plot’s spinning
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| Who’s winning and who is bluffing
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| It’s a story as common as a penny, son
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| It ain’t really worth anything to anyone
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| Poor little sore little song
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| That aches like a muscle each time that it moves
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| Sad little song that you play
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| And you play and you play
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| And you play 'til you lose
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| While history is outside writing a recipe book
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| For every earthly pain
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| This song is inside finger painting dark swirls
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| Again and again and they all look the same
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| Cuz what if you come home from school one day
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| And you find your whole family’s at war
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| And there’s this ominous silence just waiting to be broken
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| And there’s secret places for hiding underneath the floorboards
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| And everyone seems to be bracing
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| For the subharmonic thunder of the next bomb
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| And everyone seems to be waiting for the cops to bust in
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| With their guns drawn
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| At the bleak light of dawn
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| It’s a story as common as a penny, son
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| I don’t think it’s worth anything to anyone |