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Johannesburg! Johannesburg! Johannesburg! |
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I'd like to do a most disgusting song for you |
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I've played every kind of gig there is to play now |
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I've played faggot bars, hooker bars, motorcycle funerals |
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In opera houses, concert halls, halfway houses |
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Well I found that in all these places that I've played |
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All the people that I've played for are the same people |
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So if you'll listen, maybe you'll see someone you know in this song |
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A most disgusting song |
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The local diddy bop pimp comes in |
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Acting limp he sits down with a grin |
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Next to a girl that has never been chased |
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The bartender wipes a smile off his face |
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The delegates cross the floor |
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Curtsy and promenade through the doors |
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And slowly the evening begins |
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And there's Jimmy "Bad Luck" Butts |
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Who's just crazy about them East Lafayette weekend sluts |
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Talking is the lawyer in crumpled up shirt |
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And everyone's drinking the detergents |
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That cannot remove their hurts |
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While the Mafia provides your drugs |
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Your government will provide the shrugs |
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And your national guard will supply the slugs |
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So they sit all satisfied |
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And there's old playboy Ralph |
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Who's always been shorter than himself |
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And there's a man with his chin in his hand |
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Who knows more than he'll ever understand |
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Yeah, every night it's the same old thing |
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Getting high, getting drunk, getting horny |
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At the Inn-Between, again |
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And there's the bearded schoolboy with the wooden eyes |
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Who at every scented skirt whispers up and sighs |
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And there's a teacher that will kiss you in French |
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Who could never give love, could only fearfully clench |
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Yeah, people every night it's the same old thing |
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Getting pacified, ossified, affectionate at Mr. Flood's party, again |
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And there's the militant with his store-bought soul |
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There's someone here who's almost a virgin I've been told |
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And there's Linda glass-made who speaks of the past |
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Who genuflects, salutes, signs the cross and stands at half-mast |
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Yeah, They're all here, the Tiny Tims and the Uncle Toms |
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Redheads, brunettes, brunettes, and the dyed haired blondes |
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Who talk to dogs, chase broads and have hopes of being mobbed |
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Who mislay their dreams and later claim that they were robbed |
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And every night it's going to be the same old thing |
[04:01.994] |
Getting high, getting drunk, getting horny |
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Lost, even, at Martha's Vineyard, again |