BLACKOUT
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Sunday drive past your own hall of fame
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it's closed on week days shut for good
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you've got no one when you're talking
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thoughts like rattlesnakes were walking
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no one has a clue
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the party's shot
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the thin caught fault line dancing across the frigid air shack
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the spastic rats, the criminals chat
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count to ten and read until the lights begin to
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bleed lights until you actually see the rays
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and your thoughts then start to turn and
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those lessons that you're learning
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no one has a clue
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the gauzy thoughts of the sturdy Scots
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wrestle with the elements up on the trail high
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I need to know where does it go
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how do I get there and what will I find
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fun for the summertime blues
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BLACKOUT
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pavement |