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The Dub Pistols control this shit |
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Blade is the vocalist, this is the year of the apocalypse |
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Miles away and we can still see the metropolis |
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Disappearing slowly into the distance there's no stopping this |
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Cruising at a leisurely pace as we breeze past the stars |
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And travel through the Milky Way |
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We glide through the air, trekking at the speed of light |
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We're on a trip to space where the average man 'aint been |
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The ground is flooded with rain to keep the Earth clean |
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We communicate through radio waves |
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While the controllers of the ship are seeing sights that amaze |
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Searching on corners of the Milky Way and galaxy |
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You won't believe the types of things that we were forced to see |
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Wait for the sattelites, wet your appetites |
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From the distance we see the sun and it's a ball of light |
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You need a microscope to see the Earth even exists |
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And it feels like we've been suspended in space for years |
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Nothing to do but think and wonder what we'll see when we land |
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Could this be the missing link in the bigger plan |
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The Dub Pistols control this shit |
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Blade is the vocalist, this is the year of the apocalypse |
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Miles away and we can still see the metropolis |
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Disappearing slowly into the distance there's no stopping this |
|
Cruising at a leisurely pace as we breeze past the stars |
|
And travel through the Milky Way |
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We glide through the air, trekking at the speed of light |
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Rhymes on tapes mics turn them into space flights |
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Aerodynamics fly frantic with the Blade, right |
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Pushing orbital in a low tech, cruising tight |
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Pictures sneaking by from the glare of the computer lights |
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Should have bought a thinner window but spent it all on endo |
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From the dude at the last stop with three eyes in a flat top |
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Wanted for smuggling and illegal space craft |
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Don't know if we'll ever make it back now we're off track being chased by patrols |
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Pull it together, hands back on the controls |
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Tailspins and barrel rolls out of narrow spaces |
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To the center of a meteor, they can no longer trace us |
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The Dub Pistols control this shit |
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Blade is the vocalist, this is the year of the apocalypse |
|
Miles away and we can still see the metropolis |
|
Disappearing slowly into the distance there's no stopping this |
|
Cruising at a leisurely pace as we breeze past the stars |
|
And travel through the Milky Way |
|
We glide through the air, trekking at the speed of light |
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They educated us and even taught us how to breathe |
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Gave us the diet of the food that we would have to eat |
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Stick to the rations, never know what could happen |
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Run out of fuel and you might never get back in (word up) |
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Three humans in the space of five meters squared |
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Dressed in space suits attached to canisters of air |
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Alien lifeforms could possibly be a threat |
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If that's the case push the button and eject |
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They could be hostile, worse than on the X-Files |
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Don't try to talk to them, they don't talk back that 'aint their style |
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Dont' be a hero, this 'aint a move and you 'aint De Niro |
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Don't try to test them because if you do you'll be gone in zero |
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The Dub Pistols control this shit |
|
Blade is the vocalist, this is the year of the apocalypse |
|
Miles away and we can still see the metropolis |
|
Disappearing slowly into the distance there's no stopping this |
|
Cruising at a leisurely pace as we breeze past the stars |
|
And travel through the Milky Way |
|
We glide through the air, trekking at the speed of light |