| A Cadillac drives down my street
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| A bead of sweat pouring slow down a palm line
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| I see a bumper sticker: it’s a bearded man with a wanted sign
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| A myth we’ve made to scare our fears away;
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| A slogan that we slap on all our misdirected hate;
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| A muddy symbol meant to mitigate our pain
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| But it’s really just a desert corpse we painted on a wall out in some cave,
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| anyway
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| I don’t know where he’s gonna park that thing
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| My neighborhood drunk’s on line at the deli
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| With his shaky hands and swollen face he waits for his coffee
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| He blacks out curbside every night, and every day crawls back toward Wall Street
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| So I don’t see it like it’s «us» and «them»
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| I just see everybody working for that same eternal weekend
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| Droning on and on and on and never doing what we’ve wanted
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| Heavy legs, two steps behind some forever-dangling carrot
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| And I’m tired of it
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| Well, who’s to say that we can’t just fucking change it?
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| Well I know it seems dramatic but I treat it like a crisis --
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| From the office to the coffin, all our time and talent wasted
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| And that weight against your throat, is that a noose dressed like a necklace?
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| From here, I couldn’t really tell the difference
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| Either way, I say let’s not take any chances
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| 'Cause I don’t know where he’s gonna park that thing
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| No, I don’t know where he’s gonna park that thing
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| No, I don’t know where he’s gonna park that thing |