| Friday night, the open window breathes life
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| And I detect New Amsterdam upon its breath
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| It’s laughing uninhibited
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| I hear it’s clumsy footsteps on the pavement, stumbling to bed
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| Friday night, may I suggest the cooking wine?
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| It’s salty in a tasteless way and young in age
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| It pairs well with the mood today
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| So pucker up and take a drink now quickly
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| Oh what fun it is laughing at nothing
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| By this age we all have it down
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| A half full glass spills so easily
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| But fear not, there’s always next round
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| Friday night, tired neon slithers through a sign
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| It stalks the wanderers of the night within plain sight
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| And offers them a juicy bite of fruit aged long enough to be a very special
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| kind of ripe
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| And in those bites you’ll be amused
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| Your lips will smack until they bruise
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| Your appetite will be profuse
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| Your tongue will clean your dishes too
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| And when your make-out session ends
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| The next one will quickly begin
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| But this time from the other end
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| As bile kisses your inner lips
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| Oh what fun it is laughing at nothing
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| By this age we all have it down (Woah, oh-oh, oh-oh, oh-oh)
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| A half full glass spills so easily
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| But fear not, there’s always next round
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| Oh what fun it is drowning big nothing
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| By this age we all have it down
|
| A half full glass spills so easily
|
| But fear not, there’s always next round
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| Woah, oh-oh |