| This is my forty-fifth depressing tune
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| They’re looking for money as they clean my artistic womb
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| And when I give birth to the child I must take to flight
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| Cause the black in our pocket won’t let us fight
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| A proper fight
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| So hey baby
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| Can you shed some light on the problem maybe
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| Cause we’re all tired and we’d like to know
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| If we should pack our tents, shut down the show
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| Yes, we should like to see a burning bush-type sign
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| But anything would be fine
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| We’re all told to dance but we never picked the tune
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| Hanging like puppets they feed us from bent steel spoons
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| But we’re sealing our lips for the someday when the needle
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| And the vinyl play all the songs of the pain
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| Songs that explain
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| All our circles and strains
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| So hey baby
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| Can you shed some light on the problem maybe
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| Cause we’re all crying and we’d like to know
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| If we should pack our tents, shut down the show
|
| Yes, we should like to see a burning bush-type sign
|
| But anything would be fine
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| We’re all dying and we’d like to know
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| If we should pack our tents, shut down the show
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| Yes, we should like to see a burning bush-type sign
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| And we should like to see you pack your tents, shut down your show
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| And we should like to see a burning bush-type sign
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| But anything would be fine
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| Oh, anything would be fine |