| No friend of golden hand
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| Oiled with rose and smelly then
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| As your blood burned poppy red
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| Across your velvet coat
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| Your deep blue velvet coat
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| It’s there in Montana prairie grass
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| The suits shot Custard down
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| His red spot tired, his black boots shine
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| How beautiful you look to the flies
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| The happy kingdom of flies
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| Dear Custard there’s a Wal-Mart now
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| Where once the grizzlies roamed
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| Mountains of hair spray and cowboys shirts
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| And everyone has a gun
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| Everyone still has a gun
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| But high in the rafters above the lights
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| Red finches, they hide their nest
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| And when our cars drive out of sight
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| They sing symphonies across the night
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| In that forest of heating pipes
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| And out past the parking lot along the curb
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| In the wilds of weed and trash
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| Prayed on his love, the smallest ants
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| Fight battles for the glory of the queen
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| Such a tiny, glorious queen
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| But even the empress of the ants
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| For whom ten thousand fall
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| Makes not a sound beneath the blades
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| Of our great empire of lords
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| How quiet is the empire of lords |