| Two old dogs without a name
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| Trucking down the road to glory
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| Seeking not to blaze in fame
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| But to leave a blazing story
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| Being roadies is their game
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| Rough of trouser, hair of hoary
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| They’re the ones you cannot tame
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| Backline front and morning Tory
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| Theirs, the lifestyle that surpasses
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| They’re the coolest of the classes
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| Yours is blonde and mine’s got glasses
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| Give them both their backstage passes
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| Euro dogs without a draw
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| Punching down the road to Stuttgart
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| Not 'til Munich will they score
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| There’s just enough to have a kick start
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| Put the pedal through the floor
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| Whack this mother down the ausbahn
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| Band get in at half-past four
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| Sound check, sandwich and a sweetheart
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| Getting gear in, they’re the masters
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| Couldn’t rig it any faster
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| Break a leg in a disaster
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| Fix it with a sticky plaster
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| Two old dogs who know their gig
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| Piling feedback through the wedges
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| Hanging off the lighting rig
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| Miles of flex along the ledges
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| Twenty thousand make that big
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| Get more in around the edges
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| Turn up sweaty at the lig
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| Such the perks and privileges
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| They’re the hardest of the grafters
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| Load the truck up to the rafters
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| Hear the sound of roadies laughter
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| In the hotel for their afters |