| Back in elementary school
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| Fourth grade, I think it was
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| I had this friend, Ethan
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| During lunch hour
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| We used to go to Eighth Street
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| For pizza and jelly donuts
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| Sometimes we got an orange Julius
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| Instead of a donut
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| Sometimes we got the donuts
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| But instead of eating them
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| We’d put them out on the street
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| And wait for cars to drive over them
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| But the most fun we ever had was
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| After eating, sitting on a stoop
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| Exchanging sexual fantasies
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| Sometimes they involved one of our classmates
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| Sometimes, it was a movie star
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| And sometimes, it was our teacher
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| Who we both suspected was sexually repressed
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| Sometimes I claimed my stories were real
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| Like the story about the leather clown
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| She had short, spiky black hair
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| Small, but perfectly formed breasts
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| And was always kitted out in the same outfit
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| Leather skirt, fishnet stockings
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| Floppy shoes, a big, red nose
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| A pair of leather wrist bracelets with spikes
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| A big, red smile painted on
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| And a big, shiny horn
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| Which she would honk and honk during sex
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| Until she had an orgasm
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| Whenever the circus would come to town
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| I would tell Ethan all kinds of kinky
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| Clown-domination stories
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| Involving the leather clown
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| Like the time
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| She forced me to have sex with her
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| In the little car
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| Or the time
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| She kept spraying me
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| With the seltzer bottle
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| Until I obeyed her every command
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| Ethan and I
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| We laughed and laughed at these tall tales
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| But I could tell, deep down
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| He was wondering whether the leather clown
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| Was really real or not
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| And I would let him wonder |