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Out Of Breath
por
Frank Turner
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One, two, three, four Oh, somewhere down the road, well there's a ditch or there's a hole Which marks the spot where you will lie when you are cold And you can run, you can hide, you can bitch and you can whine But you will never save your life When you meet death Be out of breath And say you're pleased to see him because you're tired Now you can go down with the wreck or you can scurry from the deck But there's no way to save your skinny little neck And you can pray to who you please, and you can fall down on your knees But your feet will still get wet When you meet death Be out of breath And say you're pleased to see him because you're tired Of wondering how much time you've got left Of worrying that you're no good at chess It's your funeral anyway Choose your game Then let's play When you meet death Be out of breath And say you're pleased to see him In fact you're waiting for this meeting And well frankly his timekeeping leaves a lot to be desired So tell that hooded huckster that he's fired
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