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Wilco
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Quarters
I travel where you worked Was cold and dark as a cavern You kept quarters in your shirt But I never could just have them You always made me sweep around every flying floozy Under booths and bums asleep Waking up, they'd ask you, 'Who's he?' Behind a glass without a glance 'My daughter's boy,' you would say Well, I stood there in a trance Listening to the jukebox play
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