| Dark avenues turn into open roads
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| Crowded tenements into well-kept homes
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| Some folks die wealthy and young with bitter hearts
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| Others stay healthy long enough to see joy wither and scar
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| I don’t want any part of it
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| To be the victim, the assailant, or the advocate
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| So we’re riding out to where we don’t exist
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| Headlights cutting bright into the darkness
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| Oh, obscurity has found me in a motel suite
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| A thousand miles from the refinery
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| And polluted streets we grew to resent
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| Where we’d coexist with poison family and bitter friends
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| Chain link or picket, no one was admitted to the winning end
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| We were all wolves or lambs for the man behind the curtain
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| Arguing in circles for the prosecution or the defense
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| Lying on the hood of the car watching the sun go down
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| The devil in me knows one day we’ll have to turn around
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| «Can you imagine,» Jenny says to me
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| As the moon rises over the beach
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| «Having our own place by the ocean?
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| I know it will never be
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| But isn’t it pretty to dream?» |