| There’s aluminium cans an' cigarette butts
|
| Lyin' in the sides of street
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| Baseball field in the county park
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| Buried in a blanket of weeds
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| There’s a swastika sprayed from an aerosol can
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| Displayed on the overpass
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| Drivin' around, it’s easy to see
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| This town’s goin' down real fast
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| Somebody should do somethin' about it
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| How hard could it be?
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| Somebody should do somethin' about it
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| Maybe that someone is me
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| Followed a couple into Ferguson’s Grille
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| The doors swung back in my face
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| Closed my eyes but I felt the stares
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| When I bowed my head to say grace
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| Watched the table of suits stiff the waitress a tip
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| Like they didn’t have a nickel to spare
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| Walked out in the heat risin' on Main Street
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| But I felt the chill in the air
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| Somebody should do somethin' about it
|
| (Somebody, somebody)
|
| How hard could it be?
|
| Somebody should do somethin' about it
|
| (Somebody, somebody.)
|
| Maybe that someone is me
|
| I don’t expect this world to be Heaven
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| But it sure could be better
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| I could sit around bitchin'; |
| stand around waitin'
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| But I might be waitin' forever
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| (Forever, forever.)
|
| Somebody should do somethin' about it
|
| (Somebody, somebody)
|
| How hard could it be?
|
| Somebody should do somethin' about it
|
| (Somebody, somebody.)
|
| Maybe that someone is me… |