| We’re all polyester poets and pickers of a kind
|
| With far too many questions for the answers in our minds
|
| Stranded in the middle but all is black and white
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| Somewhere between ragged and right
|
| Somewhere between ragged and right
|
| Like a bus load of taxi drivers learnin' how to fly
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| We’re on automatic pilot driftin' through our lives
|
| Somewhere between ragged and right
|
| We’re a gang of drug store cowboys
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| With silver spurs and leather vests
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| Hillbilly Casanovas, fastest guitars in the West
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| We’re trackin' down a system, spoilin' for a fight
|
| Somewhere between ragged and right
|
| Somewhere between ragged and right
|
| Like a bus load of taxi drivers learning how to fly
|
| We’re on automatic pilot, driftin' through our lives
|
| Somewhere between ragged and right
|
| Somewhere between ragged and right |