| His mother told me everything
|
| She had every reason to lie
|
| Down there in the laundromant
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| Like his life was tumbling dry
|
| Born to be a fighter
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| With nothing to attack
|
| They put sugar in his coffee
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| And a t-shirt on his back
|
| And they signed it with a pen
|
| Now they’ve got him in ambulance
|
| And he’ll never fight again
|
| Nothing in his pockets and
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| Nothing in his hand
|
| That man in the van
|
| Out there in the desert
|
| With the dinosaur blues
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| With a suitcase full of earvax
|
| and pencils in his shoes
|
| The streets were full of marionettes
|
| And their eyes like blood
|
| It was raining crucifixes
|
| To the tune of Billy Buud
|
| Going to Los Cruces
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| To breathe that magic air
|
| They’ve got a few shocks for him
|
| When he gets there
|
| Good morning to you Dr. Varden
|
| Good morning to you if you please
|
| There’s many go begging your pardon
|
| While they’re dying by degrees
|
| The gates of hell were open
|
| There was no one there inside
|
| They were all out in Los Cruces
|
| Giving their hogs a ride
|
| With clean white jackets
|
| And their eyes like glass
|
| Maybe he’ll learn to take it slow
|
| And let it pass |