| We lived up here in Cambridge
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| And browsed in the hippest newsstands
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| The we started our own newspaper
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| Gave the truth about Uncle Sam
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| We loved to be so radical
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| But like a ragged love affair
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| Some became disenchanted
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| And some of us just got scared
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| Now are you playing possum
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| Keeping a low profile
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| Are you playing possum for a while
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| Then you moved to the country
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| Bought a farm and tilled the land
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| Then you took your books to India
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| And got hooked on a holy man
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| But the wells they do run dry
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| And the speeches turn to words
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| And the woods are full of tigers
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| And freedom’s for the birds
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| Now you run a bookstore
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| And you’ve taken on a wife
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| You wear patches on your elbows
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| And you live an easy life
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| But are you finally satisfied
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| Is it what you were lookin' for
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| Or does it sneak up on you
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| That there might be something more |