| Trapped in skyscraper, office space
|
| Take your break, escape in haste
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| I’d walk a mile for that great taste
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| Of my brand I thee sing
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| Standing there in pairs and threes
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| Chattering teeth and trembling knees
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| We French inhale and then we sneeze
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| And suddenly it’s Spring
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| We’re the new street people
|
| We’re the ones you see
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| Standing outside smoking
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| Where the air is free
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| So far you’ve had just two today
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| Baby, you’ve come a long, long way
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| Down forty flights what can I say
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| Just to get that hit
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| We stand around, the helpless ones
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| With the homeless, the winos, the bums
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| Reteach us how to suck our thumbs
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| Show us how to quit
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| Ostracized in restaurants
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| Aeroplanes and public haunts
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| Deprived of our most precious wants
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| That is to say, the weed
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| We see the billboards and we long
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| To live there, that’s where we belong
|
| Where looking cool is never wrong
|
| It’s normal to need
|
| We’re the new street people
|
| We’re the ones you see
|
| Standing outside smoking
|
| Where the air is free
|
| Ten thousand toxic natural shocks
|
| Filter, flavor, flip-top box
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| Thank God when it’s five o’clock
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| That’s when we go home
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| Behind closed doors every night
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| Matches flare and lighters light
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| There we exercise the right
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| To be left alone
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| Rooms fill up with acrid haze
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| We fill up our favorite ash trays
|
| It’s just like the good old bad days
|
| We only err in here
|
| But tomorrow we’ll be back outside
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| Along the street where we can’t hide
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| Stripped of dignity and pride
|
| Sucking cigs in fear
|
| We’re the new street people
|
| We’re the ones you see
|
| Standing outside smoking
|
| Where the air is free |