| Nothing ever happens in this dirty hick town
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| The bar is always closed and now the hookers all are gone
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| Now church is entertainment and prozac is the drug
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| Going out of my mind, start to changing things around
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| I’ve got gallons of blood
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| Can’t remember where it’s from
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| Just clippings on the wall
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| I guess it’s stuff that I’ve done
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| I’ve got to paint this town red (red… red… red…)
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| I’ve got to paint this town red (red… red… red…)
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| I’ve got to paint this town red (red… red… red…)
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| How ironic, I’m bored and all erotic
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| Just sitting around all day, just plotting how to die
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| Wasting time, cracking fingers, my blood gets thinner by the minute
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| Sometimes I feel that I am dead
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| Distant memories haunt me
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| (Distant memories haunt me)
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| It truly seems like a dream
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| (It truly seems like a dream)
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| Like a dead man’s song
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| (Like a dead man’s song)
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| A machine with no conscience
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| (A machine with no conscience)
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| I’ve got to paint this town red (red… red… red…)
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| I’ve got to paint this town red (red… red… red…)
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| I’ve got to paint this town red (red… red… red…)
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| I’ve got to paint this town red (red… red… red…)
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| I’ve got to paint this town red (red… red… red…)
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| «It really seems like a dream»
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| Like a dead man’s song
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| I’m just the machine with no conscience
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| Like a dead man’s song
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| Living in a dirty hick town
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| I’ve got to paint this town red (red… red… red…)
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| I’ve got to paint this town red (red… red… red…)
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| I’ve got to paint this town red (red… red… red…)
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| I’ve got to paint this town red (red… red… red…)
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| I’ve got to paint this town red (red…) |