All the bottles and the ashes blanket the ground.
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The sluts stagger out with their skirts hiked up, right on time now.
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I think it's time to go home. Do you wanna go home? (whoa!)
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The disco ball is swinging low.
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I found my lover on the radio. She sang me songs from a long time ago.
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Blackout! Shout it out loud. The Devil's keeping time on the brake pad now.
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It's the music on the radio that's taking me home.
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When the crowd get's to spinning I can barely hold on.
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The liquid trash flows through my veins and I scream the wrong song.
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I think I gotta go home. Do you wanna go home? (whoa!)
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So, I'll stomp to the beat, yeah I'll stomp to the beat of the...Oh.
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Oh, it's the garbage on the radio. I should have known.
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I should have fucking known.
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Blackout! Shout it out loud. The Devil's keeping time on the gas pedal now.
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It's the garbage on the radio that's taking home.
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These so called hit lists are nothing more that fat fuck lullabies.
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Man, I've had better hits on my tongue in the park on Friday nights.
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If this is victory, I'd rather listen to defeat tonight.
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Am I right?
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-----------------
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Blackout
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The Falcon |