| It’s 5:53 on Thanksgiving
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| Not one customer’s walked through the door
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| But I’m still here, slingin' drinks for a living
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| I’ve never played piano before
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| (spoken)
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| Not bad.
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| (sung)
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| I know this town like the back of my hand
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| But I’m not such a fan of the back of my hand
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| 'Cause if you look real close
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| At those little hairs and veins You’re like
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| «Hands are sort of gross»
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| It’s hard to explain
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| The point is:
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| Hey, West Covina
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| Why won’t you let me break free?
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| Am I doomed to stay here
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| Pouring my high school friends beers
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| For the rest of eternity?
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| Hey, West Covina
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| You know just where to find me
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| I’ll never go far, so pull up to the bar
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| Hey, West Covina
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| What’ll it be?
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| It’s 5:55, I’m still singin'
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| The big Turkey Day game’s lettin' out
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| But no one’s comin' here
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| Who am I kiddin'?
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| Hey, you sunburned MILFs
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| Give me a shout
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| Everyone’s going home
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| 'Cause it’s time to give thanks
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| Thanks for the chain stores and outlets and banks
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| Thanks for this town three short hours from the beach
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| Where all of your dreams can stay just out of reach
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| Dun-dun bom-bom!
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| Da-da boom-bah!
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| Hey, West Covina
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| You’re not listenin', so what’s the use?
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| Is my purpose in life to slice limes with a knife?
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| Or to serve that girl Deb a vodka and cranberry juice?
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| (spoken)
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| Hey, Deb, be right with you.
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| (sung)
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| Hey, West Covina
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| Look what you’re doing to me
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| Can’t you see, West Covina
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| You’re killing me, West Covina
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| Last call, West Covina
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| What’ll it be? |