| Oust or crumble, you gonna crumble?
|
| Tell me what you preach for?
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| Preacher man
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| I’ll tell you what you preach for
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| Absolutely nothin'
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| I said, hey, you white carnivore
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| Say, say, come here to eat us all, ah
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| You’re some kind of animal
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| Or just a white male carnivore
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| With a low pain threshold
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| You are the glass house throwin' stones
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| You think that you got the finger on the pulse
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| But you, you must have a heart that must be made of stone
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| Like a relic, a figure
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| Or some kind of neoclassical pillar
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| The pillar of your society has no clarity
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| Smoke and mirrors
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| Say, I’m a white carnivore and I feel everything, not superior
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| Say, I’m not an animal
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| No, I’m a white male carnivore
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| With a low pain threshold
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| Am I a glass house throwin' stones?
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| I don’t think I’ve got the finger on the pulse
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| And I just can’t cry 'cause I’m made of stone
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| Those relics, those figures
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| Crumblin' neoclassical pillars, woo
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| They’re gonna crumble, I’ll watch you crumble
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| Ah, imperialists, in provincial towns
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| Pledging allegiance to the pound
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| Ah they feel they’ve been robbed, feel they’ve been robbed
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| Feel they’ve been robbed, feel they’ve been robbed
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| Feel they’ve been robbed, feel they’ve been robbed
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| Feel they’ve been robbed, feel they’ve been robbed, woo
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| Woo, c’mon, shout
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| He’s got the whole wide world in his hands
|
| He’s got the whole wide world in his hands
|
| He’s got the whole wide world in his hands
|
| He’s got the whole wide world in his hands
|
| He’s got the whole wide world in his hands
|
| He’s got the whole wide world in his hands
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| Whole wide world in his hands
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| He’s got everybody here in his hands |