| Bottles falling in a dumpster send a stale smell rising
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| Through a sickening summer haze
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| To the rhythm of a boot-heeled hipster cowgirl’s
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| Clunky sashay of shame
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| Mundane mayhem the last of the AM’S gasoline powered release
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| Of the rest of the day to the afternoon’s rising relentlessly stifling heat
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| Up round the corner a B model Mazda’s sitting crooked between the lines
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| Feeling lucky that 27's the hardest thing she’ll have to survive
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| Just don’t mix your Browns and your whites with your wine
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| And don’t sit on your cigarettes
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| You’ll feel like shit soon enough and deserve’s got no say in a story’s past
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| It’s what alive feels like
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| Bored children caught between dog days when night turns them loose
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| All that’s different for girls is the bragging and who it’s done to
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| Everyone claims that the times are a changing as theirs pass them by
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| And everyones’s right
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| Way down beneath all the talk and tequila and reasons excuses and doubts
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| Breathing steam from his cup and stink from his fingers
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| He’s starting to figure it out
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| The old man’s world was more doing than thinking
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| And the doing was more cut and dried
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| Now girls collect trophies as much as the boys and come home just as filthy and
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| fried
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| Now girls collect trophies as much as the boys and come home just as filthy and
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| fried |