Brooklyn boy, born and raised
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Chopping lines, hey hey
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It's my birthday
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It's a toy I torch to tarpit flames
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A lockjaw night, hey hey
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It's my birthday
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And your dead end friends
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Make your stomach shake
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And your hissing head
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Barrels down that blackened lane
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Alone at last to figure how you got this way
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Charcoal clouds spot and spray
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They kill the sun, hey hey
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Hear its back break
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So I can never tell night from day
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Or right from wrong, hey hey
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Hear my head ache
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And your silver tounge
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Masks your hungry hate
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While your haggard heart
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Whispers through its cracking cage,
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"You still can change; you have to know
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You still can change."
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I know, I know - for now, I want to be this way.
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This was a choice; this was never a mistake.
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Brooklyn Boy
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Kevin Devine |