This is my forty-fifth depressing tune
They're looking for money as they clean my artistic womb
And when I give birth to the child I must take to flight
'Cause the black in our pocket won't let us fight
A proper fight
So hey baby
Can you shed some light on the problem maybe
'Cause we're all tired and we'd like to know
If we should pack our tents, shut down the show
Yes, we should like to see a burning bush-type sign
But anything would be fine
We're all told to dance but we never picked the tune
would
vinyl
tired
tents
strains
spoons
should
proper
picked
circles
dance
puppets
crying
songs
never
child
anything
sealing
forty
burning
birth
needle
clean
fifth
black
looking
dying
artistic
explain
fight
steel
flight
problem
depressing
hanging
money
light
someday
maybe
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