| Some nights I can’t feel my beating heart,
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| I’ve got a second-hand body made with junk-yard parts.
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| An (ink-blot?) head that makes it hard to care,
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| Broke-down hands won’t get me anywhere.
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| But when I drive this car to work
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| I feel like I’m going places,
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| Landscapes all around me seem to change.
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| And when I drive this car to work
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| I feel like I’m made of something,
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| Some day things will start to go my way.
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| I spend my evenings lying on this couch,
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| Countin' all the cracks in this old house.
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| TV dinner boxes on the floor,
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| I’m down 'cause you don’t live here anymore.
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| But when I drive this car to work
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| I feel like I’m going places,
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| Landscapes all around me seem to change.
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| And when I drive this car to work
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| I feel like I’m made of something,
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| Some day things will start to go my way. |