| It was 1990, give or take, I don’t remember
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| When the news of revolution hit the air
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| The girls hadn’t even started taking down our posters
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| When the boys started cutting off their hair
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| The radio stations all decided angst was finally old enough
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| It ought to have a proper home
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| Dead, fat, or rich, nobody’s left to bitch
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| About the goings-on in self-destructive zones
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| The night the practice room caught fire
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| There were rumors of a dragon headed straight for Muscle Shoals
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| «Stoner tries to save an amplifier»
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| And it’s like the dragon’s side of the story’s never told
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| When the dream and the man and the girls hang around
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| Long enough to make you think it’s coming true
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| It’s easier to let it all die a fairytale
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| Than admit that somethin' bigger’s passing through
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| The hippies rode a wave puttin' smiles on faces
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| That the devil wouldn’t even put a shoe
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| Caught between a generation dying from its habits
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| And another thinking rock-and-roll was new
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| 'Til the pawn shops were packed like a backstage party
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| Hanging full of pointy ugly cheap guitars
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| And the young’uns all turned to karaoke
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| Hanging all their wishes upon disregarded stars
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| My grandaddy’s shotgun’s locked in a closet
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| And it never shot a thing that could’ve lived
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| And old man decided that you couldn’t choose your poison
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| 'Til you’re nearly old enough to vote for him
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| They turned what was into something so disgusting
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| Even wild dogs would disregard the bones
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| Dead, fat, or rich, nobody’s left to bitch
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| About the goings-on in self-destructive zones |