| Take all your overgrown infants away somewhere
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| And build them a home, a little place of their own
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| The Fletcher Memorial Home
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| For Incurable Tyrants and Kings
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| And they can appear to themselves every day
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| On closed circuit T. V
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| To make sure they’re still real
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| It’s the only connection they feel
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| Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome, Reagan and Haig
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| Mr. Begin and friend, Mrs. Thatcher, and Paisley
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| «Hello Maggie!»
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| Mr. Brezhnev and party
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| «Scusi dov'è il bar?»
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| The ghost of McCarthy,
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| The memories of Nixon.
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| «Who's the bald chap?»
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| «Good-bye!»
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| And now, adding colour
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| A group of anonymous Latin-American meat packing glitterati
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| Did they expect us to treat them with any respect?
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| They can polish their medals and sharpen their smiles,
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| And amuse themselves playing games for awhile
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| Boom boom, bang bang, lie down you’re dead
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| Safe in the permanent gaze of a cold glass eye
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| With their favourite toys
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| They’ll be good girls and boys
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| In the Fletcher Memorial Home for colonial
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| Wasters of life and limb
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| Is everyone in?
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| Are you having a nice time?
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| (Goodbye!)
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| Now the final solution can be applied |