| Down in the street they walk on by
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| Taking all the money from the hole in the sky
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| Well, I saw someone in the satellite sun
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| With a briefcase in his hand, or was he holding a gun?
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| They got the purse, but they don’t stand a chance
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| There’s a battle all around, he said, «Fuck art, let’s dance»
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| While I was standing by on an ATM
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| And people waiting in line to get that freedom in their hands
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| And I know that these streets
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| That these streets were never paved with gold
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| But that’s just so we’re told
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| And our story books are all dated and old
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| And you know you can rewrite them, should the pages fall
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| And the ones who don’t believe, well, fuck them all
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| Right around the corner the from your dixie cup fun
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| There’s the malt liquor drums all beatin' on the slums
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| You walk on by, but don’t you feel afraid
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| That your 40oz will be a cappuccino some day
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| Well I know, that these streets
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| That these streets were never paved with gold
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| But that’s just so we’re told
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| And your dreams these days it seems are bought and sold
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| But the feeling still breathes in a crowded dance hall
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| And the ones who don’t believe, well, fuck them all
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| But these streets were never paved with gold
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| But that’s just so we’re told
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| And your dreams these days it seems are bought and sold
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| But you know you can rewrite them, should the pages fall
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| And the ones who don’t believe |