| In a dog’s life
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| A year is really more like seven
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| And all too soon a canine
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| Will be chasing cars in doggie heaven
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| It seems to me As we make our own few circles 'round the sun
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| We get it backwards
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| And our seven years go by like one
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| Dog years --- it’s the season of the itch
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| Dog years --- with every scratch it reappears
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| In the dog days
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| People look to sirius
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| Dogs cry for the moon
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| But these connections are mysterious
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| It seems to me While it’s true that every dog will have his day
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| When all the bones are buried
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| There is barely time to go outside and play
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| Dog years --- it’s the season of the itch
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| Dog years --- with every scratch it reappears
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| Dog years --- for every sad son of a bitch
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| Dog years --- with his tail between his ears
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| I’d rather be a tortoise from galapagos
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| Or a span of geological time
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| Than be living in these dog years
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| In a dog’s brain
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| A constant buzz of low-level static
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| One sniff at the hydrant
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| And the answer is automatic
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| It seems to me As well make our own few circles 'round the block
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| We’ve lost our senses
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| For the higher-level static of talk |