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Uncle Russian Cowboy...

Trash from the dry streets lingers here in the grass

You're going home Second City.
Gonna be a princess...
That's right, pretty little tsarevna. That's you Second City.
The purple flocked poster over the urinal is tattered with staples and dry gobahgoo. There's a big ol' smiley face in the middle. Puff, puff, puff goes the nose. My fingernails feel like they're slipping off a little bit. My foot's bent up underneath me and its filling with sand. The girl in the stall beside me is throwing up. That or she's talking to some really deep deep sheep.
What's that Second City, Second City, if it can't be done then it can't be done yeah no... That's so not so here in New York, New York, New York. The place where Crocodile Dundee slept and Washington ran away from. See my I-Heart-Tee-Shirt Second City, Second City. Now Get the fuck out. Uncle Russian Cowboy stuffs his cotton shirt back in his pants.
blahblah, blah, blah, blah... Uncle Russian Cowboy talks some more and then slaps mah face square but the wet floor in the corners are all that I smell. Are you making me sad again, I ask to Uncle Russian Cowboy...
This's a shit show Second City, Second City. Uncle Russian Cowboy needs to be going soon. Maybe he can still make his bus Second City.


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