| I broke free on a Saturday morning
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| I put the pedal to the floor
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| I headed off on Mill’s avenue
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| And listen to the engine roar
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| My broken house behind me
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| And good things ahead
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| A girl named Cathy wants a little of my time
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| Six cylinders underneath the hood
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| Crashing and kicking
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| I listen to that engine whine
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| I am going to make it through this year if it kills me
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| I am going to make it through this year if it kills me
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| I played video-games in a drunken haze
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| I was seventeen years young
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| When my knuckles punching the machines
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| Taste of scotch rich on my tongue
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| And then Cathy showed up, we hung out
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| Trading swigs from the bottle of bitter and clean
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| Locking eyes, holding hands
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| Twin high-maintenance machines
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| And I am going to make it through this year if it kills me
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| I am going to make it through this year if it kills me
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| I drove home in the California dusk
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| I could feel the alcohol inside me hum
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| Pictured the look on my stepfather’s face
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| I was ready for the bad things to come
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| I down-shifted as I pulled into the driveway
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| The motor screaming out, stuck in second gear
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| The scene ends badly, as you might imagine
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| In a cavalcade of anger and fear
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| And there will be feasting and dancing in Jerusalem next year
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| And I am going to make it through this year if it kills me
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| I am going to make it through this year if it kills me
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| If it kills me |