| There’s a man
|
| Hanging by his pants-seat
|
| While the moon
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| Is hanging over 4th street
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| People stop and look at him
|
| They think they understand
|
| They know that you’re loaded
|
| And you’re crazy
|
| And they think you’re stupid
|
| You can trust me
|
| I’m your best friend
|
| Now’s the time to leave
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| Before he breaks your nose
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| Rips your clothes
|
| Makes you bleed
|
| It’s okay
|
| I’ve got money for a taxi
|
| Yeah
|
| The people in the crowd
|
| They’re just a bunch of creeps
|
| Just the same
|
| You shouldn’t blame
|
| Your problems on the Greeks
|
| 'Cause it looks like you need stitches
|
| And that lip won’t heal for weeks
|
| Hey don’t fall asleep
|
| Your nose bleed on my lap
|
| Hey lean against the window
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| Hey never mind
|
| Come back
|
| Alan… Alan… Alan… Alan
|
| Sorry Mr. Kessler
|
| Searched his pockets
|
| No key there
|
| Yeah somebody hit him
|
| Help me drag him up the stair
|
| Kessler takes a look at us
|
| He thinks he understands
|
| He knows that we’re loaded
|
| And we’re crazy
|
| And he thinks you’re stupid
|
| I prop you at your typewriter
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| A broomstick up your shirt
|
| I lay your hands across the keys
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| Ah shit I’m suck a jerk
|
| You’ve got to be a fighter
|
| The problem with the world is
|
| They don’t know
|
| That you’re a writer
|
| Alan… Alan… Alan… Alan
|
| You get next
|
| To me |