| The press is out
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| Yeah, they think we’re dressed in blue and brown
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| They think we’re sent straight from London Town
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| But we’re not, and it’s twenty-oh-eight
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| But it’s the same routine
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| It’s been the same since 1980
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| The rich kids' in the hungry neighborhoods
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| Are looking for something to eat
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| There’s a handful of kids on my block, they’re crying
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| They all tell me New York City is dying
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| Oh, with the flick of her hand
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| She went and took it to another land
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| She said, «I can’t stand your command»
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| He said, «okay, but remember this
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| I’ll be your 30-second clip
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| Advertised on the coffee you sip
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| Driving by on a fast food strip
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| From Brooklyn to Baghdad and you paid for it»
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| And the man at the corner sells sex and violence
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| He don’t look you in the face, but you could just sense it in his eyelids
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| And the whole world’s a stage
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| But down in the crowd it’s just a cage paying minimum wage
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| And it takes a wrecking ball to break the chain
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| Or so they say
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| Get up on your feet
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| There’s a handful of kids on your block, they’re styling
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| And they’ll have you convinced that your whole wide world’s an island
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| And that it really don’t matter much
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| As long as you get that bang for your buck
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| And you put off today, tomorrow you’re fucked
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| Oh, you got your prime, stepping in time in the supper line
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| And what you learned in the street was the same as in class
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| You gotta eat the weak to advance
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| And that sooner or later it is historically proven
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| The world’s only equator will be left likely in ruin
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| So you should take what you can from the day
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| And at the end of it they’ll have you lay
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| Beside that restless, restless feeling
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| When you’re down on the ground and your head’s gone through the ceiling |