I don¡¯t want a pickle
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I just want to ride on my motor-cicle
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And I don¡¯t want a tickle
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I¡¯d rather ride on my motor-cicle
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And I don¡¯t want to die
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I just want to ride on my motor-cy-cle
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You know it¡¯s been about 12 years now, that I¡¯ve been singin¡¯ this dumb song
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You know it¡¯s amazin¡¯, it¡¯s amazin¡¯ that somebody can get away with singin¡¯ a song this dumb for that long
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But you know, hey you know what¡¯s more amazin¡¯ than that is that , uh somebody can make a livin¡¯ singin¡¯ a song this dumb
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But that¡¯s America.
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You know I told everything there was to tell about it
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When I wrote it, how come, why, what for
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But you know the one thing, that I always used to neglect to explain, was the significance of the pickle
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There was a time I was ridin¡¯ my bike
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I was going down a mountain road
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I was doin¡¯ 150 miles an hour
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On one side of the mountain road there was a mountain
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And on the other side, there was nothin¡¯
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There was just a cliff in the air
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But I wasn¡¯t payin¡¯ attention you know
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I was just driving down the road
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All of a sudden by accident
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A string broke off my guitar
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It broke you know right there
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Went flying across the road that way
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Wrapped itself around a yield sign
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Well the sign didn¡¯t break
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It didn¡¯t come out the ground
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And the string stayed wrapped around it
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Stayed in the other end of my guitar
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Held onto my guitar with one hand
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I held onto the bike with the other
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I made a sharp turn off the road
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Luckily I didn¡¯t go into the mountain
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I went over the cliff
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I was doin¡¯ 150 miles an hour sideways
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And 500 feet down at the same time
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Hey, I was lookin¡¯ for the cops
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Cuz¡¯ you know
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Hey I knew that it, it was illegal
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Well, I knew that that was it
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I knew I didn¡¯t have long to live in this world
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And in my last remaining seconds in the world
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I knew it was my obligation to write one last farewell song to the world
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Took out a piece of paper
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I pulled out a pen
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And it didn¡¯t write
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I, I had to put another ink cartridge in it
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I sat back and I thought a while
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And it come to me
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It come like a flash
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Like a vision burnt across the clouds
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I just wrote it down
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I learnt it right away
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I don¡¯t want a pickle
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Just want to ride on my motor-cicle
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And I don¡¯t want a tickle
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I¡¯d rather ride on my motor-cicle
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And I don¡¯t want to die
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I just want to ride on my motor-cy-cle
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Hey, I, you know
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I knew it wasn¡¯t the best song I ever wrote
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But I didn¡¯t have time to change it
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But you know the most amazin¡¯ thing was that I didn¡¯t die
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I landed on the top of a police car¡¦.and it died
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I come into town, I come into town at a screamin¡¯ 175 miles an hour
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Singing my new motorcycle song
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I stopped out front of the deli
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And out in front of the deli was a man eating the most tremendous pickle
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A pickle the size of four pregnant watermelons
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Just a huge monster pickle
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He walked up to me, pushed the pickle in my face and started asking me questions
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It was about the same time I noticed the pickle in my face
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I noticed a cord hangin¡¯ from the long end of the pickle
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Goin¡¯ up his sleeve down his shirt, into his pants and shoes
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Out into a briefcase he had near his feet
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I knew it wasn¡¯t an ordinary pickle
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But it was about the same time I noticed the cord hangin¡¯ out of the pickle
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That a four foot cop arrived with a five foot gun
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A cop that one time musta been around six foot three
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But was met at the bottom of a mountain
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By a flyin¡¯, singin¡¯ writin¡¯ weirdo freak
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He walked up and with one tremendous hand
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He grabbed the pickle away from the other guy
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He threw it, a hundred feet, straight up in the air
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And while the pickle was half way between going up and coming down
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He took out his gun and put a three inch bullet hole
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Right through the long end of the pickle
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It started comin¡¯ back down
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He stuck out his foot
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He caught the pickle on his big toe
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And balancing the pickle on his big toe
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He reached his huge hand into his little pocket
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Pulled out a 10 foot ticket
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He borrowed my pen
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He wrote it up
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Then he rolled it up
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And stuffed it |