| Underage, in a foreign land
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| Come to think of it, it was Japan
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| Pickin' pockets, fillin' mine with yen
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| Discovering machines that vend
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| I’d like to leave, not 'til I find
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| Machines that serve both beer and wine
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| Like an Irish man and a pot of gold
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| Or a four leaf clover for a twelve year-old
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| What then
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| What then
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| I scout for pigs, insert my yen
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| The good times, they can never end
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| I met a girl, don’t ya' know
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| She took me for some coin-op blow
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| The Japanese work so damn hard
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| For me, it’s mommy’s credit card
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| I’ll sleep all day in last night’s clothes
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| Have a beer, powder my nose
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| What then
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| What then
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| Their beds are short, their toilets stink
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| Aki Bono, the ex-sumo king
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| Parades around in underwear
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| I’m far from home, but don’t know where
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| The colors match so perfectly
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| Not to mention, temperly
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| Porcelain, topped off with pee
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| Traditional insanity
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| Their beds are short, their toilets stink
|
| Aki Bono, the ex-sumo king
|
| Parades around in underwear
|
| I’m far from home, but don’t know where
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| The beds are short are short
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| But, that’s okay
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| We only use them to fornicate
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| If I knock her up
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| What then
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| I’m out of dodge with all her yen
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| As I mill around the lobby folks
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| The custom dictates you must smoke
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| With cancers and carcinogens
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| I need to find some air that’s thin
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| My entire life I’ve lived this way
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| Like a vagabond, the punk rock way
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| Travel the globe and scream at kids
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| Fillin' water bottles up with piss
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| What then
|
| What then
|
| Their beds are short, their toilets stink
|
| Aki Bono, the ex-sumo king
|
| Parades around in underwear
|
| I’m far from home, but don’t know where |