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cause the Stampede no handles my like a

bit cold but we don’t choose though no

CliffsNotes to me we don’t need those

take the high road I’m trying to fly

though wanna touch the sky but still low

never water down even with the hydros I

don’t have to keep my eyes open up it

makes sense for the linguist with the

brain and some rhythm those hands to

square on the tortoise in a wheel call

carry-ons what we carry hope no politics

but you’re surprised