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Two old dogs without a name |
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Trucking down the road to glory |
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Seeking not to blaze in fame |
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But to leave a blazing story |
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Being roadies is their game |
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Rough of trouser, hair of hoary |
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They're the ones you cannot tame |
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Backline front and morning Tory |
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Theirs, the lifestyle that surpasses |
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They're the coolest of the classes |
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Yours is blonde and mine's got glasses |
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Give them both their backstage passes |
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Euro dogs without a draw |
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Punching down the road to Stuttgart |
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Not til Munich will they score |
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There's just enough to have a kick-start |
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Put the pedal through the floor |
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Whack this mother down the Ouststartt (?) |
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The bandit in at half-past four |
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Sound-check, sandwich and a sweetheart |
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Getting gear in, they're the masters |
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Couldn't rig it any faster |
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Break a leg in a disaster |
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Fix it with a sticking plaster |
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Two old dogs who know the gig |
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Piling feedback through the wedges |
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Hanging off the lighting rig |
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Miles of flex along the ledges |
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Twenty thousand and they're big |
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Get more in around the edges |
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Turn up sweaty at the lig |
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Such the perks and privileges |
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They're the hardest of the grafters |
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Lock the truck up to the rafters |
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Hear the sound of roadies after |
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In the hotel for their afters |