| Hey look at that guy, look at what he’s worth
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| Rolls his cigarettes backwards
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| Jesus, what a jerk
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| He’s got hay in his hay loft, flowers in his dirt
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| Revolts against his heartbeat every time it hurts
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| But he don’t say a word — he’s paralysed his song bird
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| It never used to be that difficult to sing
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| But I am no longer gonna help you
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| If you complain that I don’t spit in your eye
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| I’ve got enough trouble ending up in hell before my time
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| Lost all his marbles, all his energies
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| Sunk in the ocean, bottom of the sea
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| But he got to know better, learnt some sympathy
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| Hurting other people vanished by degrees
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| And they said, «There's your crow’s feet.»
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| «There's your stay at home freak.»
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| It never used to be that difficult to sing
|
| But I am no longer gonna help you
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| If you complain that I don’t spit in your eye.
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| I’ve got enough trouble ending up in hell before my time…
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| Oh I’m so impressed with the things I think about
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| I feel these things I’m never wrong about
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| I steal from the rich and I give it to the poor
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| They’re so damn dumb that they don’t know what it’s for
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| They can’t work out what they’re supposed to use it for
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| And as he gets old, he digs a bigger hole
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| He’s got itty-bitty creatures clinging to his toes
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| And he crawls on the floor, makes a lot of dough
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| Everybody loves him everywhere he goes
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| But I don’t think he knows
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| He’s closer to a stone’s throw
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| To the place where it’s impossible to sing
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| But I am no longer gonna help you
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| If you complain that I don’t spit in your eye
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| I’ve got enough trouble ending up in hell before my time
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| In hell before my time
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| In hell before
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| My time… |