| You’re the best of singers with whiskey and wine
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| You play your part to perfection
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| They wake you up and tell you it’s time for bed
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| But there is no question of letting this run any more
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| The cigarette’s burning your fingers
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| There’s too much wine on the floor
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| And more, and more, and more
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| You’re the best, the worst, the best
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| Now move, you’ve made a great art of wasting your time
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| You’re the national treasure for madness
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| But birds that sing without leaving their trees
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| Are prone to delusional grandness
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| And don’t let this run anymore
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| Come down from your branch while you’re able
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| There’s too much blood on the floor
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| And more, and more, and more
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| You’re the best, the worst, the best
|
| Get up, get up, get up, get up, get up, get up
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| Get up, get up, get up, get up, get up, get up
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| Get up, get up, get up, get up, get up, get up
|
| Get up, get up, get up, get up, get up, get up
|
| Get up, get up, get up, get up, get up, get up
|
| Get up, get up, get up, get up, get up, get up
|
| Get up, get up, get up, get up, get up, get up
|
| Get up, get up, get up, get up, get up, get up, get up
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| You’re the best, the worst, the best
|
| You’re the best, the worst, the best
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| You’re the best, the worst, the worst at the best of time
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| Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh |