| Please don’t turn on the TV
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| Or open the paper
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| ‘cause the chances of tragedy
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| Are now part of the weather
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| I’ve got myself a notion
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| To keep me safe for awhile
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| I think I’m gonna go hide myself
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| Behind hot water and tile
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| Every decade they say it’s getting worse
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| I don’t know if it’s true or a cynical curse
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| But it’s bearing down on me constantly
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| And pretty soon now, I think it’s gonna burst
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| I’m not coming out of the shower
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| It’s such a comfortable crutch
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| It’s a warm loving womb, an intoxicating tomb
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| And I don’t miss the outside world that much
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| Now all my harshest critics
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| Are screaming for murder
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| But I’m doing what we’ve done all along
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| I’m just taking it one step further
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| I’ve always been a good American
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| I drank a lot of soda and I didn’t question
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| In whose deft hand the grenade was in
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| And now I feel someone is gonna pull the pin |