| Shoot on up to Newcastle, weekend gigs
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| On a two night stopover, I’m living in digs
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| With greasy spoon breakfast and supper and tea
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| These syrup of figs’ll be the death of me
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| I got my base man, drummer and my rusty (trusty?) old axe
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| So keep your motor running — gonna cut me some wax
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| I say roll, roadie roll on
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| I say roll, roadie roll on
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| I say roll, roadie roll on
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| I say roll, roadie roll on
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| I say roll, roadie roll on
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| And on and on
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| Monday morning — sees us steaming down the A1
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| At 4 in the morning, isn’t show business fun
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| There’s only one wiper working, trannies and bits
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| I’m taking in weather — really gave me the pits
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| Here comes another wagon, must be doing a ton
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| When I open my eyes, I hope the race’ll be won
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| I say roll, roadie roll on
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| I say roll, roadie roll on
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| I say roll, roadie roll on
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| I say roll, roadie roll on
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| I say roll, roadie roll on — and on and on
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| (D'ya hear me?)
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| Two number 1's and a couple of 3's
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| I’m down looking living the way that you see
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| I owe my mum a fortune, but she said it’s alright
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| But can I get a haircut, ‘cos I do look a sight
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| Here comes some silly sucker working 9 till 5
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| Man do I know whether I’m dead or alive
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| I say roll, roadie roll on
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| I say roll, roadie roll on
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| I say roll, roadie roll on
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| I say roll, roadie roll on
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| I say roll, roadie roll on and on and on |