| My waiter is a Brando affecting Nicholson’s smile
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| I feel a sort of compassion but choking down my dinner was a trial
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| The sixty-five year old poet, he’s still finding his voice
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| I read his old yellow clipping calling him the poor man’s shithouse Joyce
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| The impossible dream, yes you will find out
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| His face was a jackal it seemed to her in the dim
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| She clutched her precious objects that held no meaning for him
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| She stuffed her screeching child into a stroller
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| It’s throwing cheap plastic toys in its wake
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| Transfixed and horrified he watched it snack on some kind of albino cake
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| The impossible dream, yes you will find out
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| Start at the top and live like you’re always willing to fall
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| But you know it makes no difference to me This year you’ll reinvent yourself and grow
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| Comfortably soft you’ll jump over the barbed wire
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| And get your giblets torn off
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| Slow motion in a crashin’car
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| Her halo formed in broken glass
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| Yellow police tape and a blonde wig
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| I guess you went too fast
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| The impossible dream, yes you will find out |