| His mother told him when he was just young
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| There are things you can do, but some can’t be done
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| And you won’t be able to always have fun
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| 'Cause your color is black, some won’t accept that
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| Oh dear, what can the matter be?
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| Oh dear, what can the matter be?
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| Oh dear, what can the matter be?
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| Now time moves on, the world moves fast
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| No time for flowers, no place to grow grass
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| There’s no fishing hole where he used to go
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| Just four story factories with pillows of smoke
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| Oh dear, what can the matter be?
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| Oh dear, what can the matter be?
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| Oh dear, what can the matter be?
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| All the bushes have grown from society’s rot
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| Young ideas keep moving, but the old way’s still taught
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| Though his mind is his own it seems all that he’s got
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| He’s six months in jail, for just smoking pot
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| Oh dear, what can the matter be?
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| Oh dear, what can the matter be?
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| Oh dear, what can the matter be? |