| The summer sun was beating down
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| Oh pity would it show
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| George Chester’s office air conditioner
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| Would no longer go
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| As pools of sweat rolled off his brow
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| He had one reverie
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| He saw himself with his wife and kids
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| In his cottage by the sea
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| He paid for his car at the parking lot
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| Which gave the poor man chills
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| The attendant laughed and walked away
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| Thumbing a roll of bills
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| He started his engine with trembling hands
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| At the end of a long, hard day
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| And placing himself in the hands of God
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| He drove to the long freeway
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| The traffic stretched far as the eye can see
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| As bumper to bumper they sped
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| They drove at supernatural speeds
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| Which filled his heart with dread
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| Sometimes they stopped for an hour or more
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| And a thousand horns would blow
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| George Chester’s eyes rolled back in his head
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| And his poor brain started to go
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| He came at last to the turnpike gate
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| And he laid his money down
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| He took the fist turn to the right
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| And he followed the curve around
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| He took each bend of the clover leaf
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| He followed every sign
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| And when he came back to the same toll gate
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| He gave them another dime
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| His hands were tight on the steering wheel
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| His lips and throat were dry
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| He swore by all that he held dear
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| He’d make it through or die
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| He took the first turn to the right
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| The clover leaf to go through
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| He was quite sure of his success
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| Till the toll gate rose in view
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| And now they say when the moon is full
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| And the clover leaf is still
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| The sound of an engine can be heard
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| Laboring up the hill
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| A dime drops in the toll machine
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| In the cool of a summer’s night
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| And eternally that poor car
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| Takes the first turn to the right |