| I’m such a delicate child, you know
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| I always said my prayers because I didn’t want to die
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| If it’s all the same, at least that’s what they say
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| They’re clinging on Sunday, they know it’s not a game
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| Well we’re happy in the suburbs, just sucking on our spoons
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| The people here are emptier than the surface of the moon
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| So ground control to major tom now what a boy to do
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| Know everything is changing, but nothing ever changes
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| Make a home in a hunkering ditch and wait for all the clowns, to blow us all to
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| bits
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| Oh shit, well now look what you did
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| Everything is glowing, everything is glowing
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| We’ll march in pairs, they’re rolling up their sleeves
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| Someone threatened someone else well someone has to bleed
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| It’s all the same, just arrogance and greed
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| So hold onto your hatches, back down the hatches
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| Weekends follow weekends like the stations of the cross
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| And it’s not that you’re unhappy, you’re just happy on and off
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| And it’s nothing like the stories, that they taught you, growing up
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| Dye your hair, and whiten up your teeth
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| No, no one really cared for what was really underneath
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| Oh it’s all the same, just sycophants and creeps and they’re not really happy,
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| they’re not really happy
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| Oh, where did you go
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| Did you get sick of fetching the stick
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| The others were cautioned, but you’re far too quick
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| Record the bus at Peter and 18 roll back harrow road back past the greats to
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| wilson green
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| And everyone was laughing, and picking at the seats
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| The took all their best stories through and all grilled up the seats
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| Go home, and cower in a ditch and wait for all the predators to blow us all to
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| bits
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| Blue screens, turn in all the cash
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| No it’s not really killing it’s just pointing at a map
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| Weekends follow weekends like the stations of the cross
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| And it’s not that you’re unhappy, you’re just happy on and off
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| And it’s nothing like the stories, that they taught you, growing up
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| So live with your parents for a while
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| Everyone is growing so nicely, really coming along
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| And I hope that when thirty’s finally here, you can sit in your bedroom,
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| shouting your neighbours
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| Raise a gap with the windows and the gardens with flowers You can count on your
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| fingers
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| Oh there’s no love in this town anymore
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| But if you want to find love you can always go to london |