| The gas inside the combustion engine
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| Took away all of the mystery
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| And adventure from the walk to your house
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| In the dark
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| So that we could stay out all night long
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| And be king of all the roads
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| And the woods, and the lake, or anything we chose
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| Because everything was ours
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| And we would spray-paint «NRC»
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| So that everyone would know
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| We would break into the factory
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| Our childhood autonomy
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| Had no respect for authority, or property
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| Or your asshole neighbors' complaints
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| And I still have all the keys
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| To the forklifts that we never got a chance to drive around
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| Or tear the building down ourselves
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| From the top of the water tower
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| We spilled our guts on one another
|
| And we compiled them together
|
| And we all shared the same heart
|
| And we hated all construction
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| But we loved all their machines
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| And they hated our destruction
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| And we picked their locks apart
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| And we thought we were damn clever
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| Because they never kept us out
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| And we thought we’d live forever
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| Until the night when it got way too serious
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| And you showed me your damaged wrists
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| And you broke down and we embraced
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| And nothing at that time meant more to me
|
| And if I had only known
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| That it would be the last time
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| We’d be on that level with one another
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| I would have never let you go
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| I still walk those paths at night, but now just on my own
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| I recite to myself every story
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| In hopes that I will never let them go
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| I’ll hold on to every polaroid from France and Rome
|
| And remember the nights at the Alamo
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| As if it were my second home
|
| And I know that we had no idea what we were doing
|
| But an artist’s first work can be his greatest
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| Under a different set of lenses
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| Our ideas of staying close together for all time;
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| I wish I still had that same state of mind |