| Way down, way far underground
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| We got started at the bottom of the basement
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| We didn’t stretch to come to a sound
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| We’d just play until we found the proper placement
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| And it was all right
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| It was just the way we used to do it
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| But now the times have changed and all the questions too
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| Like why bother to pursue it
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| For far too many, many years
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| I’d ask myself the same thing everyday
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| What do I want and where should I do
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| Is playing music just leading me astray
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| I didn’t think so
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| And all my sisters convinced me that I should keep it up
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| Because it was embedded in my blood type, oh
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| All that we needed was four tracks and maybe some paint fumes
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| And the desire for creation was away
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| It always sounded good, and we knew it would
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| We never dreamed that one day it would pay
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| And now we’re slowly waking up
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| I had the strangest dream
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| I was drowning in a flooded studio coiled in cables and inputs
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| And I was coming apart at the seams
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| Forty tracks
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| Forty mikes
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| Turn up the heaters and fire up the floodlights
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| Because we’re going to be here for a long time
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| But this place feels right because this is our space
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| And we can do what we want when we need it and it’s on our own dime
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| And now I’m raising up a ballet boy and a hockey girl
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| And I’ve a wife that I really love
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| Truly, dearly, completely, and hopefully so
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| Somebody’s watching over from above
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| Just who, I can’t say
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| I try to rationalize it in my own way
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| These are the reasons that you do what you do and I can be satisfied
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| With a life of less work and more play
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| Poor me |