| Me debunk an American myth?
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| And take my life in my hands?
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| Where the great plains begin,
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| At the hundredth meridian.
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| At the hundredth meridian,
|
| Where the great plains begin
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| Driving down a corduroy road,
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| Weeds standing shoulder high
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| Ferris wheel is rusting off in the distance
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| At the hundredth meridian where the great plains begin
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| Left alone to get gigantic;
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| Hard, huge and haunted
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| A generation so much dumber than its' parents came
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| Crashing through the window.
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| A raven strains along the line of the road,
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| Carrying a muddy, old skull.
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| The wires whistle their approval,
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| Off down the distance.
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| At the hundredth meridian where the great plains begin
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| I remember, I remember Buffalo and I remember Hengelo
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| It would seem to me I remember every
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| Single bloody, warm and horrible thing I know
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| If I die of vanity, promise me, promise me,
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| They bury me someplace I don’t want to be,
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| You’ll dig me up and transport me, unceremoniously,
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| Away from the swollen city-breeze, garbage-bag trees,
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| Whispers of disease amd the acts of enormity
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| And lower me slowly, sadly and properly
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| Get Ry Cooder to sing my eulogy,
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| At the hundredth meridian where the great plains begin. |