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When I was a young boy, |
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I went up to a hill |
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And looked on to a spot that |
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A parking lot would fill. |
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I knew I would have no say |
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In whether it was done. |
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I looked on that spot and |
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I wish I had a gun. |
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When I was older |
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I took her to my hill. |
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The shopping mart security |
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Couldn't find us there. |
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It gave us a big thrill. |
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Long ago, the family farm |
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Would've hidden us from the stars, |
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But yellow weeds & garbage heaps, |
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Hid us from the cars. |
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Now I sit on my hill, |
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In a basement floor machine. |
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Rich folks laugh, |
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While the furnace burns, |
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And this condo sits on me. |
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Can't see any blackbirds, |
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Can't see any clouds, |
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The weeds are gone... |
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And so is she. |
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Rich folks choke on billowing smoke. |
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And I found a new hill. |