It's a thin line between paper and hate, Friends and snakes, nine millis and thirty-eights, Hell or the pearly gates...I was destined to come, Predicted, blame God, He blew breath in my lungs.
The Chinamen built the railroad, the Indians saved the Pilgrim, And in return, the Pilgrim killed 'em. They call it it Thanksgiving, I call your holiday 'hell-day.'
Life is parallel to Hell but I must maintain and be prosperous, though we live dangerous.
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