| Michael Jackson is alive and well and living in Canada
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| That’s what I was told by a friend of mine who heard in on the radio
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| I was not so very old when Thriller hit number one
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| But even in my infant mind I knew the gloved one was invincible
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| So I could believe he was somewhere deep in North Ontario
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| Moonwalking with Elvis, and maybe working on brand a new show
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| Oh their cabin isn’t small at all, but it’s no northern Neverland
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| No Graceland in the woods, just a simple home with simple furnishings
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| Two Kings on two wooden thrones, rocking the porch away
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| Talking about the old days and working out the details of their comeback tour
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| But both of them know they’d rather stay there in their forest home
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| Playing Hearts by the glow of their trusty old wood stove
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| And Michael spins the globe and they stare at it and go
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| No, you’ll never see us again
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| No, you’ll never see us again
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| Oh, you never were our real friends
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| Ergo, you’ll never see us again
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| One sticky August night, it’s said, they were up past their bedtimes
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| Staring at the stars and drinking virgin cocktails made with ginger-ale
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| Elvis heard it first, a hum in the distance
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| It sounded like a plane, but Michael was sure that it was aliens
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| But suddenly, a helicopter materialized
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| Bright shining lights and cameras burning out of the darkened sky
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| There was nothing to be done, they knew, they didn’t have an alternative
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| So Elvis armed the switch, and MJ he followed the launching protocol
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| The cabin was a blur of steel two kingly voices they counted down
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| From twenty back to one, and then the cameras captured their fading final song
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| Oh, you’ll never see us again
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| Oh, you’ll never see us again
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| No, you never were our real friends
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| Ergo, you’ll never see us again |