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Born on the southside you live alone |
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Four walls a roof and its always cold |
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Look out the window and there is nothing to see. |
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But, a Rot torn city and the death of your country |
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And your chilled to the bone |
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With no possessions to call your own |
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Yet you control your rage |
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And you resist the crime |
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Because your the next in line |
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Born on the southside you live alone |
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Four walls a roof and its always cold |
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Look out the window and there is nothing to see. |
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But, a Rot torn city and the death of your country |
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And your chilled to the bone |
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With no possessions to call your own |
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Yet you control your rage |
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And you resist the crime |
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Because your the next in line |
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Out the back door and to the corner store |
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All you want is a drink and nothing more |
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Sit on the stoop and Let the liquor sooth your pride |
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Before you go inside |
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And your chilled to the bone |
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With no possessions to call your own |
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Yet you control your rage |
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And you resist the crime |
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Because your the next in line |
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You cut in front and now your the next in line |
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You cut in front and now your the next in line |
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You never thought you'd lead a life of crime |
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You cut in front and now your the next in line |
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Freedoms the only thing you need |
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But the truth is something few understand |
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And an unwelcome reality |
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Now its dark and Black and sad and gone |
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You express and repress the things gone wrong |
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And you want to be the man who ran away |
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And you wish you could go back to yesterday |
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Now he's in her room and he's about to lie |
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So you pull the gun squeeze the trigger |
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And you let the bullets fly... (Huber) |