| I’ve only known you for 10 minutes but I’d prefer you didn’t die just yet
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| You’re on a horse, your hands are tied and there’s a rope around your neck
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| One of them’s good, the other ones bad and you’re no oil painting
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| But you play the part of the holy rouge
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| Dance along like the desert’s your stage
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| Your soul possessed by the ghost of Stanislavski
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| Eli Wallach
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| Through his silver tooth, before he shoots he speaks their epitaph
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| Loose scripts and unsynced lips and he still makes us laugh
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| Like when he wears his gun while he’s in the bath
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| Disbeliever: But for all of your laughter, you’re going crazy like some guy
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| like he’s your zen master…
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| Darren: I know
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| But inspiration’s rare as gold, hidden in an unmarked grave
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| You find a hero where you least expect it
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| Mine’s been in over 50 films
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| And I’d have thought by now
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| Somebody would have written a book about him |