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I met a guy the other day, he said he had it all figured out |
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He claimed he was ecstatic, he proved it with a shout |
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"I like hippie chicks", he said, "They're not so damn dumb |
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They don't sing like Ethel Merman, they don't imitate nuns" |
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"They comb their hair with porcupines and loofah their feet |
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And they become indignant when you threaten them with meat |
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Their windows grin like pumpkins filled with candles and beads |
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Their beds are all futonic and there's babies on their knees" |
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"But my mother wears a hat", he said, "Extruded from a tank |
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And my sister reads good housekeeping and worships at the bank |
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My grandma loves Pat Robertson, says he's it, that's that |
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And my wife says I'm a lunatic but hippie chicks are where it's at" |
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He told me this while revving up his brand new pick up truck |
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He wore a leather hat and shades above a twelve pack gut |
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"I know where they got hippie chicks, they're all in Santa Cruz" |
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Then he jammed a tape in his Blaupunkt and drove off born to lose |
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'Cause although he got the message he was deaf to the news |
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There are no chicks in Santa Cruz |