| Maybe I should be a writer
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| Wroight a book and feel much brigter
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| Share my thoughts with the world
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| Or maybe I could be a film maker
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| Celluloid, more fun than paper
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| You never see the scren’s corners curl
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| Aah maybe then I could be a lover
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| Find a girl and win her over
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| And tell her that she’s the only one
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| But maybe then a philanderer
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| I’d sneak around and lie to her
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| And kid myself that I’m the happy one
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| I’m not looking over four leaf clover
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| I’m just waiting for hell to freeze over
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| Maybe I should take the mike, (mic')
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| Stand up tall like Michael Stipe
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| And try to solve all the problems of the earth
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| Or maybe then I should sit back down
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| Scratch my chin and use my frown
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| And try to figure out exactly what I’m worth
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| We’r estill building churches, burning books
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| Killing the babies to feed the cooks
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| Who said the world would turn out fair?
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| So I guess I’ll dig myself a hole
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| Ask the devil if he wants my soul
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| And do soemthing real like cut my hair
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| Ooh, «maybe this» and «maybe that»
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| It may be satin and it may be sack
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| Won’t really matter much in the end
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| May be my enemy, may be my friend?
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| I’d drive myself around the bend
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| Thanks for your time and ears to lend |