(B. Abbott - D. Roeser)
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Raise your can of beer on high
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And seal your fate forever
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Our best years have past us by
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The golden age of leather
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This was the night not long to come in the year of our Lord A.D.
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Where in a desert way-house, poised on the brink of eternity
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Four and ninety studded horsemen closed the knot of honor
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As only drunken soldiers can
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And passed from man to man, a wanton child to dead to care
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That each would find his pleasure as he might
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For this fantastic night was billed as nothing less than the end of
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an age
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A last crusade, a final outrage, in this day of flacid plumage
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And there was worn no cloth but leather
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Made supple by years of stinging cinders
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And here were seen the scars of age
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For age had been the common call for one last night together
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Down colored the sky (the ritual feast)
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Some had died (they were buried with their bikes)
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Each grabbed a rag (from a man with a sack)
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Torn strips of color (the red and the black)
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We made a vow to give it all we had to give
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We made a vow to die as we had lived
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They flew the colors, they began to fight
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They flailed at each other like bugs at a light
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Bodies and bikes beyond repair
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Smell of oil and gas in the air
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Then the wind whipped the desert with a giant hand
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And the humans and the Harleys caught the shifting sand
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And the old ranger weathered the storm
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And he topped the rise by the middle of morn
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He saw rippled dunes, calm and surreal
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And a glint of a shaft of chromium steel
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Golden age...
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Golden Age Of Leather
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Blue Oyster Cult |