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Woolie Bullie
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Pere Ubu
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There’s a Diner out on Route Three Twenty Two. Western Pennsylvania. I spent my life there one afternoon. I can’t get that stretch of road Out of my head. I hear it when I Take a shower Reading the paper. I’d look up and see it Across the valley. They tore down the Starlight And down at the end of the road Built a big Day’s Inn. Blocks the view. But I know that road’s still there I can feel it wherever I go. Whatever I’m doing It knows that I’m still here. And it's waitin’. We are abandoned. Lies own the word. All the pictures and All the museums In the world Are just a sham Peeking played By the clever people Who broke the rules. Reality is defined by the needs of the Media History is rewritten Faster than it can happen. Culture’s a weapon That’s used against us. Culture’s a swamp. And a superstition; Ignorance and abuse. Geography is a language That can’t screw up. Land, And what we add to it Cannot lie. It’s also like a mirror In which we see ourselves, Or choose to turn away. Watch it now. Watch it. Watch it.
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