| Like to meet some of these idiots
|
| Who put up the signs
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| Like to burn the fabric
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| Outta their inner lines
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| Sheet lightning going down through the pines
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| With your shocks out of line
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| Your out of your mind
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| Crossing traintracks on switchbacks
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| Through the lands of the living
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| Pepe’s gotta brand new bars for his liquor store
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| The Fort Knox of oblivion
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| When your driving through the city
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| Thanks god for the sea
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| Somebody’s got to draw a line somewhere
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| And it might as well be Harry Belafonte
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| And now ain’t the time to hit the station
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| Crowded with the ghosts of the Be Bop Nation
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| 'Tranes of thought and times of tones
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| Sometimes a little wistful cigarette smoke blowing
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| The President blew so that Bird could live
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| And each along the wire could give
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| The sunglass vision of the golden clef
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| And the ghetto rod divines which notes are left
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| Oh brothers I’m talking I’m talking
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| He’s got the solo on a wire
|
| This calls for a flock of angels
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| To hover over the holy pyre
|
| The President blew so that Bird could live
|
| And each along the wire could give
|
| The sunglass vision of the golden clef
|
| And the ghetto rod divines which notes are left
|
| Golden rain its the piss of Zeus
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| Mixing with the dead yellow Swing incects juice
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| Caught in the windshield headlights and sluice
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| As you battle ahead on Truth
|
| Sheet lightning going down through the pines
|
| With your shocks out of line — Your out of your mind
|
| Whispering in the plywood motel
|
| Some crazy dish didn’t turn out to well
|
| Some dreamy argument — some delicious smell
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| Slow blizzards of petals coming at you in a storm
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| Thats the way you make me feel — Like warm |