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Caught the bus at 5:06 |
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That's in the AM for all you little trust fund kids |
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And it's a forty-five minute trip |
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If she ain't in by six, she'll catch another pink slip |
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And that's three and that means fired |
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The coffee thermos in the purse to help her keep wired |
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The day-care where she drops the baby off |
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Thank god it's on the same block as the bus stop |
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By 5:30, she's halfway there |
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And her back already hurts from the bus' plastic chair |
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Live to work to live to work to live |
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Gotta feed the kid and give it all she's got to give |
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Plus she tryna catch a little overtime |
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If she stays till four she could be home by five |
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Shuts her eyes for the rest of the route |
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And keeps her headphones loud to drown everything out |
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But the same old song... |
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[Hook] |
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"Whoa... whoa, not another day!" |
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Not another day of the same old song |
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"Whoa... whoa, not another day!" |
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Not another day of the same old song |
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[Verse 2] |
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Seemed like nobody even knew his name, huh |
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If he disappeared would they even see the blank spot? |
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The only kids who might notice are the ones who |
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Push him up and down the hallways and in the lunchrooms |
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Sometimes he looks at his bruises and wants to come to school with |
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A gun like them kids on the news did |
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But nah man they don't deserve to die |
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He's the type that couldn't even murder a fly |
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I guess you get used to the life |
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Maybe that's why he refuses to cry |
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Takes it on the chin, takes it in stride |
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What doesn't break you just makes you stronger right? |
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So he sits by himself on the school bus |
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Hoping that today he wouldn't have to put his dupes up |
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But just like any other, here they come |
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To fuck with his comfort, can't wait for summer |
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It's the same old song... |
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[Hook] |
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[Verse 3] |
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C'mon, woke up at the taste of dawn |
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When the city's bloodline starts to push it along |
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The generators on those public buses |
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Is enough to bust you out of any dream that you stuck in |
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I guess that's the chance you taking |
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When you camp out in front of that transfer station |
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And this town got no answers to chase |
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That's why he always sleeps near the transportation |
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Panhandle it, transient freedom |
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Transplant, he ain't from this region |
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And when the wind starts to whisper its lips |
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He knows enough to pack it up and dip out before the winter hits |
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Childhood dreams washed down the gutter |
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Both parents gone, no sisters, no brothers |
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Weak memories, strong paranoia |
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While the same song repeats in his head |
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Over and over and over and over it goes... |