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Wilco
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Quarters
I travel where you worked
Was cold and dark as a cavern
You kept quarters in your shirt
But I never could just have them
You always made me sweep around every flying floozy
Under booths and bums asleep
Waking up, they'd ask you, 'Who's he?'
Behind a glass without a glance
'My daughter's boy,' you would say
Well, I stood there in a trance
Listening to the jukebox play
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