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When he was young he use to play with toy guns |
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He’d say it was for fun but really it was the feel of it |
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He acted silly but Billy loved the appeal of it |
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Though its just plastic his roles got drastic |
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Sound effects would blow he’d black mask it |
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Around his neck would glow that classic Rambo medallion |
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He use to dream of Lambo’s, Italian Mafioso, Commando, battalions |
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He would lead them through the dark of winter |
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He would leave them when his mom had started dinner |
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At the table with his bleeding elbows |
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Even when eating he needed his G.I. Joe’s |
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By his side guarding his pride |
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A soldier or a poet it got harder to decide |
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The fun ends as the evening unravels |
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A young mans ego’s so fragile |
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And now he’s hitting his teens still drifting in between |
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Wanting to be a writer wanting to be a fighter |
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He’s starting to wonder which was mightier |
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And found one |
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The difference between Martin and Malcolm |
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He couldn’t see it in the outcome |
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They didn't live to see it |
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Now how come |
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Was the thought he saw the ones who fought |
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He saw the ones who got caught in the crossfire |
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His boss fired him and the cause |
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He was reading Che Guevara instead of him parking cars |
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Who writes the laws who enforces them |
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Born to win, born to loose, born again |
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Mortal men with an ego so fragile |
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Reading as the meaning unravels |
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Was it a ****** to the head or the words to the brain |
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That brought about more change, man |
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It’s been a long time since I use to pretend I was… |
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You know… I don’t know…Billy the Kid |