| Findlay Ohio, 1968, poking hot tar bubbles
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| With a stick on the driveway
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| Grammy’s a Republican, Nixon is her man
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| In 2 years time, Ohio will be up in flames
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| I like the smell of the trash and leaves
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| Burning in the cans
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| Roger is the boy next door he’s a wanderer, he starts
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| With his hands…
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| Cathy’s the outcast we’re nice but we steer clear
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| Everyone says watch out for her mom
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| The word is she’s crazy she’s always drinking beer
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| Cathy’s dad never came back from Vietnam
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| I like the smell of the trash and leaves burning in the cans
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| Roger is the boy next door he’s a wanderer
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| He starts by holding my hand
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| Scared, curious, raised up nice, but furious
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| What happens to a fence-scaling girl
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| If you catch your pants on top, first you’re stuck and then you drop
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| You’ll look back and first you feel the thrill
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| And then…
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| I wasn’t into poetry, but Sexton changed all that
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| «The awful Rowing» past in tow and sinking slowly
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| Listless and listing the things that I leave behind,
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| So unkind, the pull of history
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| We drove in a station wagon, wheels soft slapping
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| Trenton on the turnpike
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| The smell of the refineries rushes back to me
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| And how I loved the lights
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| Scared but curious, raised up right but furious
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| What happens to a fence-scaling girl
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| If you catch your pants on top, first you’re stuck and then you drop
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| You’ll look back and first you’ll feel the thrill |