| I was willed this front porch
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| From my American kin
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| We rode it over three counties
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| On top of four old Coca-Cola cans
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| I took two old soda cans
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| I cut them in half
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| Put them on my porch chair legs
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| So my porch I will not scratch
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| My American children ask
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| Why we can’t wear cans on our legs
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| You’re young, children
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| No harm will come when you’re American made
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| «Father, do that thing you do»
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| I put the soda within
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| I shift the can halves, wobble my chair
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| Then let the Coke drip down my chin
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| The wet streams down my front
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| It stains itself on my blouse
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| I hear my children being silent
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| Then as one, they let out a shout
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| «It looks like America
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| Did it fall out of your mouth?»
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| I can feel my joke start to stick to my skin
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| This stain’s not coming out
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| Now I take my soda
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| And spit more on myself
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| Let it land on my groin
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| I call this the South
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| It’s South America
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| Down between my thighs
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| If you’ve ever been there
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| Then you know that I do not lie
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| They take their Hot Wheels
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| And run it over my skin
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| From Galveston to North Dakota
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| My children run it under my chin
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| They say we need more America
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| There’s no more state around
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| So I take more soda, put it on my chin
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| And let it fall, fall about
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| Well I keep going
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| I pour more sugar down my back
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| I tell them it’s Europe, Iceland, and Hong Kong
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| I don’t know no more than that
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| Wherever there is Coke stains
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| Consider that your car’s land
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| I got many more cola and plenty dry clothes
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| Because I’m American
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| We are American
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| You are American
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| They run their Hot Wheels
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| Over my skin
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| After I removed America
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| My children say, «Do it again»
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| I let the Coke drip down my chin
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| I let the Coke drip down |