| Kids were born with banjo’s in they’re hands
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| Before they’re ten they learn the tricks, the picking and the slapping
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| And dream to be the leader of the band
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| Hundreds of them work they’re guts out lookin' for a rainbow
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| That never seems to visit village halls
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| The music calls and Nashville people never learn to say no
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| That’s why their strumming comes from subway walls
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| There’s no room at the top, for anyone for long
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| No room at the top, for any kind of song for long
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| L.A. seems to be the place where high keeps getting higher
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| Dope is found on supermarket racks, eight miles isn’t high enough for L.A.
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| 's mess desire
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| Since the town abolished pleasure tax
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| Psycho music killed it self dying by the needle
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| And paved the way for folk rock in its place
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| The synthesizers couldn’t stay beside the country fiddle
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| It didn’t seem to want to win the race
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| There’s no room at the top, for anyone for long
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| No room at the top, for any kind of song for long
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| Well, you know, there is no room at the top not for anybody, any soul for long
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| No room at the top for any kind of song for long
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| No room at the top for anyone for long
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| No room at the top for any kind of song for long |