| Cory is the one — she’ll never ever die young
|
| She’ll be quite candid
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| And say we were drunks who made her come
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| Running with Revolt and Plutonium
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| In the canyons of Uranium
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| Rolling off roulette on a Rampart Street
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| Here come the King of the Bayou
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| When should a beat get the blues?
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| If its a subway pokergame you lose
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| If the Zulu king is on Main
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| Lets beat the parades and the crowds from the game
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| Rushing through the rush hour on an all-nighter
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| Never seen you look so young
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| The world really looks from the dounut store
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| Such a funny colour in the sun
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| And in his style hes number one
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| Said the monkey of the three wise bums
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| Toting Mezzrow and up to the innocent
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| But he’s seen what jammings been done
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| And they’re selling tickets to the stadium
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| And the doors to the ceilings or our craniums
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| I was glad we were changing on the gradient
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| They were sweeping up with searchlights made of Radium
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| Everglade funk in a clubtown
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| For once the traffics been conquered by the streets
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| Listening close to the waterpools
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| You can hear the hiss and the leaks
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| And the rattling cans of the shuffling bands
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| Down the avenues of spare change
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| Forty blocks north in your memories
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| In the Indonesian fog and the rain
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| Cory is the one — she’ll never die young
|
| When should a beat get the blues?
|
| If its a subway pokergame you lose
|
| Rolling off a roulette on a Rampart Street
|
| Here comes the King of the Bayou |