| It s the day before Thanksgiving I m not feeling much of thanks
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| Just a low-grade desperation leaves me reeling in the ranks
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| Just when I think I m getting somewhere it s somewhere further to fall
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| It s the day before Thanksgiving that is all
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| I don t believe the pilgrims sat with Indians for a feast
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| A self-proclaimed holy sailor doesn t break bread with his beast
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| But then again he had a musket and the Indian had a knife
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| And the musket man could make him eat for life
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| I don t believe this country s manifestering destiny
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| Someone just cooked it up and it is fed to you and me
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| They tell us who to love and war and never ask for help
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| And they cannot stand us thinking for ourselves
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| The day before Thanksgiving back in 1991
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| A millionaire let me drive his Mercedes just for fun
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| And I drove it with the top down on them Blue Ridge Mountain roads
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| He let me keep it thirteen weeks or so
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| And I know what he was saying with that car that wasn t mine
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| That I could have one too if I just did not cross the line
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| But lines were made for crossing and I was born to crack the code
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| And there ain t no shame in walking down this road
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| So it s turkey breast and stuffing with gravy on the top
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| Mashed potatoes, peas and dinner rolls, you use them like a mop
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| Got my position at the table, got a child to say my grace
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| And a wife and boss that keeps me in my place
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| It s the day before Thanksgiving I m not feeling much of thanks
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| Just a low-grade desperation leaves me reeling in the ranks
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| Just when I think I m getting somewhere it s somewhere further to fall
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| It s the day before Thanksgiving that is all |