| At Harold Edward’s Elementary
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| You pay respect to our God, our flag, our military
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| In grade 3 I had a written composition
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| About the global threat of communism
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| And I was the luckiest eight-year-old McCarthyist of 1979
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| I spent spring break on the flight line
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| Of a base in the Carolinas
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| The U.S. version of my dad had signed us
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| Signed us in, signed us in
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| And twelve years later, the Gatling I’d touched
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| Was strapped to the nose of a U.S. A-10
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| Separated flesh from bone
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| And honed its skills on lesser humans
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| And thus confirmed the suspicions earned
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| In the 7 years preceding
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| About the lies I was told and, truth be known
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| I’m probably better off believing
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| They said I’m better off believing
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| Somehow better off believing
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| But how could they do this to me?
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| Born head first and brought up ankle deep
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| And maybe you’re a lot like me
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| Identified for fourteen years without a choice
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| Terrified the morning you woke up and realized
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| That if and when you jump ship
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| You either swim for shore or drown
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| Don’t let the fuckers drag you down |