| Mom’s just a throw-back
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| To the sixties generation
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| All that junk like peace and love
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| Is just an aggravation
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| Ain’t got no use for transcendental meditation
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| Mom, you’re universal love is such a drag
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| He might’ve been a Virgo
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| Or a head shop owner
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| Or two freaks from San Francisco
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| A washed out surfer with his body golden tanned
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| Or some lead singer in a psychedelic band
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| Feeding me granola
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| And other flakey stuff
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| You told me meat was hostile
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| But I just can’t get enough
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| Being vegetarian just ain’t quite my scene
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| There’s only so much you can do with soy beans
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| Mom, your universal love is such a drag
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| Mom keeps telling me About her days at Woodstock
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| Half a million space-balls
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| And all of them with their feet stuck
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| Freaking out on acid and what Bob Dylan says
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| I think she’s tryin' to turn me into Joan Baez
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| Oh Mom can’t you tell me where your head’s at
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| I’m sick to death of hearing about
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| Where you saw the Grateful Deads at Oh Mom, don’t you know this is the eighties?
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| Oh Mom, can’t you relate to what the date is?
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| Mom’s just a throw-back
|
| To the sixties generation
|
| All that junk like peace and love
|
| Is just an aggravation
|
| Ain’t got no use for transcendental meditation
|
| Mom, your universal love is such a drag |