| Spitting blood in a sink in a German hotel bathroom
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| A wet clot of red gum juice, souvenir of wisdom’s ration
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| Rinsing face, drying hair, humming «Oh Engineer» by the brothers Larcombe
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| Thinking of the bands I never got a chance to spend my cash on
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| Ché and his Caballero chucked it in when I said I liked them
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| Now I’ll never catch them in a smoky room on Highbury Corner
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| I shall weep for them another day because I’m at the fulcrum
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| Of the Voodoo graveyard see-saw and I’m not the only mourner
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| What do we do when our friends split up?
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| Five little sevens then belly up
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| There’s no more ash, no more soda pop
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| Why did those five have to make it stop?
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| At least we have Storm And Stress to show for the DC Implosion
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| Mushrooms grown on an upstairs Smalley wall
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| Are chopped down and moved away from
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| Five icemen melt without hint of a reforming notion
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| And the clan I saw perform the most give a bow and leave my kingdom
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| Talented friends and 25 eclipse the work of certain strummers
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| Steel-string chords and a railway or a globe, or Mr. Bickle’s nonsense
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| Who can rescue us from the Embrace of these Monsoonless summers?
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| Don’t rely on magic, friends because in rock there are no constants
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| What do we do when our friends split up?
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| Is there no way they can make it up?
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| If you bump into my penta friends
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| Be sure to ask if they meant to end |