| Living off the friends we made
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| Never ever getting paid
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| Kicking ass and paying dues
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| Lose our mind in self abuse
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| Loving ladies by the score
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| Waking up and wanting more
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| I hope my Mama understands
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| When I strike up the band
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| Well I spit out my anger as the sweat do fly
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| Fifteen years of paying dues just to get me by
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| Now the barkeeps would pay us by the crowds we bring
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| But those son-of-bitches never paid us one damn thing
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| And my poor Daddy, he just don’t understand
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| It’s balls out tonight, watch the shit hit the fan
|
| When we strike up the band
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| Now those drop dead ladies line the very first row
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| I do believe I’d like to spend some time after the show
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| Now them years gone by, the barkeeps pay in cash
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| And them lovely ladies feed me an earful of trash
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| And my old lady, she just don’t understand
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| Why those floozies got their hands on her man
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| And my poor Daddy, he still don’t understand
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| Why it’s balls out tonight watch the shit hit the fan
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| Give it all that we can, we don’t give a good damn
|
| When we strike up the band
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| Living like a gypsy
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| An air conditioned hippie
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| Who’s never seen the light of day
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| Rode dog and cowboy
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| Don’t know how, boy
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| I ever lived this long this way, no, no, said
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| And my poor Daddy, he still don’t understand
|
| Why it’s balls out tonight watch the shit hit the fan
|
| Give it all that we can, we don’t give a good damn
|
| When we strike up the band |