| You’ve got to run up, you’re in a torment
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| Try to win the golden calf
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| You try to do your best an acolyte of wealth you are
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| You get ahead, elbow your way through
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| Tramp down your former chums
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| Watchin' the late night news
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| You glance at hunger, bombs and war
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| Stung by remorse, askin' your conscience
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| Why nothin' makes no sense
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| While on the screen a lad in disguise
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| Blesses you and the whole world, the show of shows
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| He’s shakin' hands, public relations like every singer do
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| A dummy of the mighty and the rich just workin' to the rule
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| He’s workin' through every country
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| Meets tyrants and democrats
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| It is no end of trouble, exegesis fit them all
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| Stung by remorse, askin' your conscience
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| Why nothin' makes no sense
|
| While on the screen a lad in disguise
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| Blesses you and the whole world
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| (absolution) who gives absolution to that bloke in rome
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| (absolution) who is willin' to play god? |
| you win a silver pot
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| Stung by remorse, askin' your conscience
|
| Why nothin' makes no sense
|
| While on the screen a lad in disguise
|
| Blesses you and the whole world, the show of shows
|
| (absolution) who gives absolution to that bloke in rome
|
| (absolution) to a fool who bans birth control
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| (absolution) an alibi to snub a thing he’d never done
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| (absolution) who is willin' to play god? |
| you win a silver pot! |