Leave it to beavers We were 33 million red clad revelers Hearts pounding, fists pumping Like we’d just found a box of free porn It was our time in the sun And the rain and the slush in the Bars from Commercial to Khatsalano But the clock has now stopped Bathed in lipstick, dried vomit and urine Just like Nagano, Salt Lake and Turin The flame has been snuffed like a Black market 8 mm thriller, while Quatchi’s Turned rabid and our hangovers throb Like bad disco The echoes of memories chatter did it happen It seems like goodbye is all we have left So like millions of lemmings on the edge of a cliff We’re ready to drown in a sea of athletic Post coital boredom But all is not lost, my friends We still have something to hold on to: something Slick and wet as a West Coast ...
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