| Dead in the water, it’s not a paid vacation
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| The sons and daughters of city officials attend demonstrations
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| It’s hardly a sink or swim when all is well if the ticket sells
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| Out with a whimper, it’s not a blaze of glory
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| You look down from your temple
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| As people endeavor to make it a story
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| And chisel a marble word, but all is lost if it’s never heard
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| But I’ve got someone to make reports
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| That tell me how my money’s spent
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| To book my stays and draw my blinds
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| So I can’t tell what’s really there
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| And all I need’s a great big congratulations
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| I’ll keep your dreams, you pay attention for me
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| As strange as it seems, I’d rather dissolve than have you ignore me
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| The ground may be moving fast
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| But I tied my boots to a broken mast
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| The difference is clear, you throw it in your cauldron
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| Rust and veneer, dusk and dawn, Steinways and Baldwins
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| You start with a simple stock of all the waste and salt to taste
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| But damn my luck and damn these friends
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| That keep on combing back their smiles
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| I save my grace with half-assed guilt
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| And lay down the quilt upon the lawn
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| Spread my arms and soak up congratulations |