| Born on the southside you live alone
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| Four walls a roof and it’s always cold
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| Look out the window and there is nothing to see.
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| But, a rot torn city and the death of your country
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| And your chilled to the bone
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| With no possessions to call your own
|
| Yet you control your rage
|
| And you resist the crime
|
| Because you’re the next in line
|
| Born on the southside you live alone
|
| Four walls a roof and it’s always cold
|
| Look out the window and there is nothing to see.
|
| But, a rot torn city and the death of your country
|
| And your chilled to the bone
|
| With no possessions to call your own
|
| Yet you control your rage
|
| And you resist the crime
|
| Because you’re the next in line
|
| Out the back door and to the corner store
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| All you want is a drink and nothing more
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| Sit on the stoop and Let the liquor sooth your pride
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| Before you go inside
|
| And your chilled to the bone
|
| With no possessions to call your own
|
| Yet you control your rage
|
| And you resist the crime
|
| Because you’re the next in line
|
| You cut in front and now you’re the next in line
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| You cut in front and now you’re the next in line
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| You never thought you’d lead a life of crime
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| You cut in front and now you’re the next in line
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| Freedoms the only thing you need
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| But the truth is something few understand
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| And an unwelcome reality
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| Now it’s dark and black and sad and gone
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| You express and repress the things gone wrong
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| And you want to be the man who ran away
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| And you wish you could go back to yesterday
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| Now he’s in her room and he’s about to lie
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| So you pull the gun squeeze the trigger
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| And you let the bullets fly… |