| We’ll play on the road
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| Flytipping, careful as you go
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| And we’ll watch as the lorries
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| Transport their precious loads
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| With a bag in our hands
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| Flytipping, me and my patient man
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| Just by the hard shoulder
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| This few who’ve understood
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| What is my name, what is yours?
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| Do we own these things, what has it all been for?
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| Flytipping on the road of course
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| What is yours and what is us?
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| Do we fool ourselves with all those pretty words?
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| Flytipping on the road with her
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| And I’ll take you to the Fir trees
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| As the paper drifts like falling snow
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| Under the trees
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| Two hunters looking for ivory
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| Discard their possessions
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| Cast them to the breeze
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| 'Cause the worms in the ground
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| And the crows as they circle round
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| Don’t need these things to cling to
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| For a homestead playground
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| What is my name, what is yours?
|
| Do we own these things, what has it all been for?
|
| Flytipping on the road of course
|
| Shiny things that turn into rust
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| So we show ourselves with all this pretty stuff
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| Flytipping feels like just enough
|
| And I’ll take you to the verges
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| By the nettles, by the roundabout
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| And I’ll pick you wild roses
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| In the tunnels like the underpass |