| I take a bite outta' Maryanna’s cookie and Christine’s apple
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| And write graffiti on the ceilin' of the Sistine Chapel and
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| No, I’m not jokin' 'bout drinkin' coffee and pot-smokin'
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| Many minds try to take the weight off me and die broken
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| But I remain soft-spoken, humble yet cocky
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| If that makes any sense, and I
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| Mumble like Rocky Balboa
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| What’s up to my good pals Noah
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| ,, Tyrone, and
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| Oh yeah, some of the other names ain’t good to mention
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| Because alotta folks don’t know the true meanin' of friendship, and I
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| Won’t let a drum machine come between me and myself
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| I can’t be bothered with «cosmo-politics.»
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| Wolves ran after us, but they couldn’t catch us
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| Scared because we strike anywhere like wooden matches
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| First part finally and second part initial
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| Now what you call «official art,» I call «artificial.»
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| Who would be fool enough to think
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| He or she wasn’t cool enough to smell the flowers, listen to the bees buzzin'
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| I tell my little sister shut her eyes
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| And think about the butterflies
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| And don’t say bad words or utter lies. |
| It’s a
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| Classic case of abusin' the telephone device and
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| Not bein' able to take my own advice
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| Oh well, whatch' you gonna' do?
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| Should this spacious interior
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| Be home to goodness gracious?
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| I’d like to think so
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| And I’d like to live long
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| So hold the cold hand of the old man and give strong
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| Positive shouts out to the inner core of beauty
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| At every step along the way on your tour of duty
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| Whatever that is, and keep your mind open
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| Keep your ears open, and keep your eyes wide open
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| Keep guessin' |