| If you’re looking for the glory
|
| You think that you might find
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| In a bullet-riddled stolen car
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| On a back road in the pines
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| If it’s round just like a medal
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| On a tired old man of war
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| Or hidden like that Burma Star
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| In my dad’s bottom drawer
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| Look at you in your monkey suit
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| Driving south, nothing left to prove
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| You come back here in your cowboy boots
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| Dressed to kill in your monkey suit
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| Every pose you strike, every frame they shoot
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| Shows you dressed to kill in your monkey suit
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| Build your ladder to the moon
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| Beat on that sacred drum
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| Trample on the hands of those
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| That cling to every rung
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| Every seed you crush beneath
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| Like stone ground in a mill
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| You never drew a decent breath
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| But you’re just dressed to kill |