| Ain’t nothing like the windy city
|
| Where the station-wagon died
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| Where the wild dogs meet the fences
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| And the horsemen, fences ride
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| Where the flatlands become flatlands
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| And the caravans collide
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| I’m just sitting 'neath the mango
|
| Running a tide
|
| Took a ride on a bin-train
|
| 50 cars or more
|
| They say the heads are just insane
|
| But it’s too risky to score
|
| Sittin' on the lawn with Andrea
|
| Draggin' the line for big red
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| Everyone looks better with a suntan
|
| Easier to get you into bed
|
| Daughters of the northern coast
|
| Sons of beaches, don’t deliver the post
|
| You know the post is a ghost
|
| Lee Marlin went lookin' for a marvin
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| While we were looking for a line at the pub
|
| Hey, and still the black man’s starvin'
|
| No wonder nobody wants a job
|
| Helicopter over homestead
|
| Stirring all the young blades at night
|
| They’re steppin' out there in the sultry summer evening
|
| Their pistols all packed
|
| And their badges so bright
|
| Daughters of the northern coast
|
| Sons of beaches, don’t deliver the post
|
| You know the post is a ghost
|
| Took a ride on a bin-train
|
| 50 cars or more
|
| They say the heads are just insane
|
| But it’s too risky to score
|
| Andrea’s been giving me a towel down
|
| Standing on a palm beach shore
|
| If 'n'those girls keep a doin' that thing
|
| I can’t wait for next year
|
| I’m gonna come back for more
|
| Daughters of the northern coast
|
| Sons of beaches, don’t deliver the post
|
| You know the post is a ghost |