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Black Out
by Pavement

Sunday drive past your own hall of fame
It's closed on week days shut for good
You've got no one when you're talking
Thoughts like rattlesnakes were walking

No one has a clue
The party's shot
The thin caught fault line dancing
Across the frigid air shack

The spastic rats,
The criminals chat
Count to ten and read
Until the lights begin to bleed lights

Until you actually see the rays
And your thoughts then start to turn and
Those lessons that you're learning
No one has a clue

The gauzy thoughts of the sturdy Scots
Wrestle with the elements
Up on the trail high
I need to know where does it go

How do I get there and what will I find
Fun for the summertime blues

Lyrics © WORDS & MUSIC A DIV OF BIG DEAL MUSIC LLC
Written by: DAVID BOWIE

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