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flyin down this hill on my schwin |
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well I guess this is where it all begins |
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go in sandburg come out like ray charles |
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an odor of jasmine for yer flowers |
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sometimes on my bicycle rides |
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these pleasantries fall from the trees |
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little Quixote's fished out like floaties |
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from the bevy of yer choice |
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ladies choice |
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flyin down this hill on my schwin |
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well I guess it all could have ended then |
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unlike consternation's quagmire above |
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the streets firmly paved ways |
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coupled with speed and gravity |
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and the craniums tendency |
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to leak vital information |
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all over the road to recovery |