| Marty was a punk rocker
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| he went to all the shows
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| patches on Swiss Army pants
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| and two rings in his nose
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| he had an old Nash Rambler
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| no insurance, not much gas
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| and a dancing hula girl that bobbled on the dash
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| feeling kind of stupid
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| one day he broke down
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| he drove his ugly car to the edge of town
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| he sunk it in the quarry
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| just because he could
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| and 'cause the rear defroster never worked too good
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| Marty where you going
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| whatcha going to?
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| what’s the point in not conforming
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| if it changes you?
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| when this world runs out of answers
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| would you even know?
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| does the truth have any bearing on which way you go?
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| he took the bus to Santa Cruz
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| he hitchhiked to L.A.
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| a preacherman had picked him up
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| and drove him half the way
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| he said «there's two kinds of people that i’ve met
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| those who ask the questions
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| and those who don’t ask questions yet»
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| then he turned, asking Marty
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| which one that he thought he was
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| Marty shrgged and shook his head
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| forgetting what the question was
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| you’d do almost anything someone told you not to do
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| just because someone else told you it was cool
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| remember long ago, someone said to get a life?
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| did you ever think they might be right?
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| Marty was a rebel, he never had a cause
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| it may be stupid and cliche
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| but that’s because he was
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| he spent his whole life straying from the norm
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| he was neither hot or cold
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| just boring and lukewarm
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| it didn’t seem to bother him
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| he didn’t seem to mind
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| his cathartic life
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| just buried somewhere in the timeline |