| Three brides before breakfast
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| These reds, they’re just rectus
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| Right hand on my heart around
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| My left hand snaps your necklace
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| Each day is a little more scary
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| Holding on, get away just barely
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| Moms and dads are rationing their cash
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| For the commissary
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| But I can’t stop without going all the way
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| It’s a habit, someone gave me up
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| This man in the black cage, canary 'the clips
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| Across here, in a pink-slip
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| This wish just to going back here
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| When I know it wasn’t ever, ever happening
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| Show me my best memory, it’s probably super crappy
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| Not here, standing sexless with sluts of both sexes
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| Liars, lumps and drug addicts and drunks
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| I love my friends but I can’t stop without going all the way
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| And I’ve been that way since '83
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| Oh, midwife with a jet life or a genie with a golden spur
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| A price to pay to pink-slips
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| A country Cadillac in the valley of mirrors
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| With a cold cane, there was nobody here
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| Came for the communism, I kissed it on the lips
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| It came with the singers in hazel pink-slips
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| Is it a kiss or it’s just a dream and I’m drifting?
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| Other fish lay lifted, only happy till the age of 10
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| It’s still a gift, but we can’t go back, those two too sad and dies
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| It’s just a dream we all have
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| Now I know in the touch lane, a post per post of puckered lips
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| From Academy Awards to pink-slips
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| I show them my Corvette with no ' for years
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| And I’m standing in the rain to get the champagne or beers
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| They said 'who's that shadow sneaking up behind the pier?'
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| He was rushing he was rattled now he’s finally in the clear
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| To be a, a refugee from the rat race with a swag tuxedo in his face
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| A music room that you can’t place, sing the songs on all them tapes
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| He’s the lonely aid on the planet ' now he doesn’t even write, he just rows
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| And they cover up his cot with pink-slips |