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Feeling bad, feeling good,
Into palading like I knew I could,
Looking Up, looking down,
Smoking pipes of White Castle,
Can't find no life in this damn town,
'Cos the bluetits give me hassle.
And people look at me so strange,
When I 'm as limited as my vocal range.
Feeling hot, feeling cold,
I feel a slave to my bottle,
I stay in bed over night and day,
'Cos the rubber is perished and rotten,
Feeling sour, feeling sweet,
Sidewalk hard under my feet
J. P. Sebastienne magnifique,
Feeling nice, cooking rice,
'Cos there's rubber in my tummy,
And all my dole couldn't fill the hole,
So I write pleading letters to my mummy,
Feeling bushed, trained and pushed,
Tramps demanding my loose change,
I really would, if I only could, expand upon my vocal range....