Yeah... what... yeah... Here we go To inhaling crushed bones through a dried up white-out pen and riding the backwards racer in hot june rain and a marching blue and gold plastic bag poncho rain coat It's a wooden coaster with a medium hill height mean High hill to flat ground ratio you know I'd sell my shingles for a thimble dip of snow Back then i'da sold my single for a finger tip of blow And us in navy blue hoodies and khakis as was the style that year (And us in navy blue hoodies and khakis as was the style that year) And us in navy blue hoodies and khakis In london, where the sirens yelp like a helpless dog with his paws stepped on And the rain comes down in late july And the record labels call you Why? And your eyes are slits and bags of fat And your eyes are pissholes in the snow And your eyes are slits and bags of fat And your eyes are pissholes in the snow I swear the riders on the tube tie razors to their elbows The riders on the tube keep call cold coal in their billfolds The riders on the tube will hide cocaine in their shell-toes And yes yes yes, man, they'll novacaine the hello Till the constables got pitbulls with their paw bones all stepped on Till the constables got pitbulls with crushed bones up their nose holes (Till the cows come home) And us in fish net hats and canvas shoes as was the style that year (And us in fish net hats and canvas shoes as was the style that year) And us in fish net hats and canvas shoes as was the style that year (And us in fish net hats and canvas shoes) as was the style... |
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