| Well, there’s a bright white light
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| To shine, shine on all the dim bulbs in the crowd tonight
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| And there’s a thin yellow line to separate the fast lane
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| And there’s a man I know, he’ll take apart your engine if you ask him right
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| Let’s empty all the minibars and leave this town in flames
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| He’s starving for attention
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| She’s swallowing her pride
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| Bitter gall for bleeding ulcers
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| Attitudes you can’t abide
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| A sentence fragment city
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| A poor excuse for a life of crime
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| This is not a road picture
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| We are not amused (or surprised)
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| You don’t need a passport to know what state you’re in
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| She wore barrettes of many colors in her many-colored hair
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| That’s not the point -- they only notice what you wear
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| She said, «The moon is a toenail, the stars are a guardrail
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| My heart is a sand pail
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| And you’re Toluca Lake.»
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| Stop the traffic!
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| Bend the time!
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| We’re heading into territory too ugly to explore
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| (but they’ve both been there before)
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| He quotes Nathanael West
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| She tries her best
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| But can’t find a mouth to grin with --
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| 'Cause a tragedy requires a little greatness to begin with…
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| You are ill wind; |
| you blow no good
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| A pissant under glass, an airport neighborhood
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| Earthquake survivor, feral youngsters smoking tea
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| Spit in your hands and see you splinter every tree
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| Culver City!
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| Beachwood Drive!
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| Vesper Avenue!
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| Hey hey!
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| The needle on the radiator
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| Rising as the road inclines
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| The scene is going nowhere fast
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| He’s shooting highway signs
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| She carves her sorry epitaph
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| A carjack fever scrawl:
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| «If you only live in movies, maybe you don’t really live at all.»
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| You don’t need a passport to know what state you’re in
|
| To know what state you’re in
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| To know what state you’re in
|
| To know what state you’re… |