| The kids are freaking out
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| Everybody’s goin' nuts
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| The heats out every night
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| To call up names and kick thier butts
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| But everytime you turn around
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| You’ll see some joker staring back
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| He’s got a secret tape recorder
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| And a camera in a sack
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| Pretending that he’s just another
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| Of the kiddies freaking out
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| But they pay him off in acid
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| Cos he’s a downtown talent scout
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| He’s got your name
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| And he’s got your face
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| He’s got your ex-old lady’s place
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| He’s here to see whats goin down
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| And they don’t believe the things he’s found
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| The badges gleam and the minors scream
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| When he pulls on the scene
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| They got no warrants in their pockets
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| But that badge makes them supreme
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| You kids are smoking dandelions
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| You’re sniffing paper bags baby
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| You’re dropping Good N' Plenties
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| We can tell your posture sags
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| Now line up here against the wall
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| Your bodies frail and thin
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| And open up your pockets
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| While we dump the evidence in
|
| Well they know that smoking flowers
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| Won’t win a case in court
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| And they know that Good N' Plenties
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| Aren’t the psychedelic sort
|
| But they tear your place apart
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| Because they simply couldn’t pass
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| A chance to drag some freaks downtown
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| For smoking devil grass
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| Well you never get your day in court
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| The food downtown is foul
|
| The day of trial you nearly die
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| With maggots in your bowel
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| But modern law and justice
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| Has advanced to such a point
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| That a jury trial is useless
|
| They simply take you to the joint
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| Cause after all you look so freaky
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| How could anyone believe
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| That what you think and what you feel
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| Comes close at all to what is real
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| Blow your harmonica son |