| Went to see a band tonight
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| And they wouldn’t play my favorite tunes
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| It’s 2012 but I like the ones from 1992
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| There was no place to sit
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| And goddamn it I couldn’t use my phone
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| And fuck if the singer didn’t joke
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| That we all looked like cookie-cutter clones
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| And they played too long
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| And I didn’t like his new words
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| About guys in tennis shoes
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| And moderately talented yet attractive young girls
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| When I get home
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| I tell you just what I’m gonna do
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| I’m gonna cry me a river
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| Williamsburg Sleeve Tattoo Blues
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| Cry me a river Williamsburg sleeve tattoo blues
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| Gonna tell you a little story here because, well, what the heck
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| About a guy named Billy
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| Who was born with a birth defect
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| Was in a wheelchair by the time that he was 36
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| He was hunchbacked and his feet and his hands were green
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| And all turned in
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| One day the candy stripers were taking him
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| Out of his bed
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| And they dropped him by accident
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| Within five minutes
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| He was pronounced dead
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| I used to visit him with my father
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| When I was a child
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| I never saw Billy once when he didn’t have
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| The happiest smile
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| I’ll tell you another story here because, you know, well, what the fuck
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| About a winter’s day I was in Tennessee
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| And my friend was out fixing his truck
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| The next door neighbor kid was in the woods
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| When a hunter mistook him as a buck
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| He was shot in the heart
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| And that was the end of his short run of luck
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| He was 10 years old
|
| And he never got a chance to fuck
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| Or to play guitar
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| Or get a tattoo
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| Or dwell on the internet and run amok
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| His mother was shattered
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| Like a clay disc
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| Or a ceramic duck
|
| While the rest of the world was watching MTV
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| And hating
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| I’ll tell you another story here about a tough Colombian kid
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| Named Jimmy
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| Who sadly only lived to be the young age of 23
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| He held the featherweight title back in 1995
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| Til he stepped in the ring with Rafael Ruelas' older brother Gabe
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| And he died
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| He had the heart of a lion
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| Was outclassed and dropped in round 11
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| And two weeks later he found himself
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| In dead fighter heaven
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| Jimmy Garcia’s mother lost her young son
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| But in time she found forgiveness
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| And put her arms around the other mother and father’s son
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| Told Gabriel to get back out there
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| Put up his fists and get in that ring
|
| And that in him, she would always see
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| Her beloved son Jimmy
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| You go quack quack quack quack
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| Quack quack quack
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| Like a little rubber duck
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| Like a pathetic whiny sad little child hater boy fuck
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| Go in on your analyst
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| Little petty bitch bitch bitch bitch bitch
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| Be glad you’re not a motherfucker sleeping in the ditch
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| Sleeping in the streets
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| Sleep in your own vomit
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| Sleep in your own piss
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| Sleep in a pile of pigeon or dog or rat or crackwhore shit
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| Or a murder victim in one of those Die For Me or Helter Skelter books
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| Or one of those mentally ill kids
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| Who was tortured in that Staten Island place called Willowbrook
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| I was a kid in a basement when Geraldo Rivera broke that story
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| And the images of those kids being tortured in that institution
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| Stayed with me
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| And they were so fucking gory
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| Grateful you got legs to stand on
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| And a place to pass
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| Precious days on this earth
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| That you still got
|
| Your life could end with a bullet in your head
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| In a parking lot
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| Or in a cancer ward
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| Much earlier than you ever thought
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| Crying the river
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| Williamsburg Sleeve Tattoo Blues
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| (And you won’t be)
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| Crying the river
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| Williamsburg Sleeve Tattoo Blues |