| Going down a dirty inner city side road
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| I plotted
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| Madness passed me by, she smiled: «Hi»
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| I nodded
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| Looked up as the sky began to cry
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| She shot it
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| Met a girl from Dearborn, early six o’clock this morn'
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| A cold fact
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| Asked about her bag, suburbia’s such a drag
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| Won’t go back
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| 'Cos Papa don’t allow no new ideas here
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| And now he sees the news, but the picture’s not too clear
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| Mama, Papa, stop
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| Treasure what you got
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| Soon you may be caught
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| Without it
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| The curfew’s set for eight
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| Will it ever all be straight
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| I doubt it
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| Seven jealous fools playing by her rules
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| Can’t believe her
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| He feels so in between, can’t break the scene
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| It would grieve her
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| And that’s the reason why he must cry
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| He’ll never leave her
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| Crooked children, yellow chalk
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| Writing on the concrete walk
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| Their King died
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| Drinking from a Judas cup
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| Looking down but seeing up
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| Sweet red wine
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| 'Cos Papa don’t allow no new ideas here
|
| And now you hear the music, but the words don’t sound too clear
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| Mama, Papa, stop
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| Treasure what you got
|
| Soon you may be caught
|
| Without it
|
| The curfew’s set for eight
|
| Will it ever all be straight
|
| I doubt it
|
| Going down a dusty, Georgian side road
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| I wonder
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| The wind splashed in my face can smell a trace
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| Of thunder |