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Then the moon sprayed white on the lake
At the edge of night when the bugs were getting bad
And the boys all stood in a silent semicircle
Dodging smoke and tossing driftwood into the fire
And the girls were picking burrs off of their cords

When I heard the slow crack of wood
I was sifting through, through the pile of sandals
When the police lights finally oscillated through the canopy
That marked the access over the beach path
The Kubler-Ross soup course was already served

Can we share these years with regret
There was going to be a September wedding
He was waiting for
For the last book in the series that he loved,
To see the loose ends finally tied up
But all his own broke off and floated away

There was going to be a September wedding
There was going to be a September wedding
There was going to be a September wedding

Greg Kutcher - lead guitar
Lauren London - vocals

Copyright 2013 Zach London

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If I wanted
Your opinion
If I wanted your opinion
I would beat it out of you

If I wanted
Your opinion
If I wanted your opinion
I would beat it out of you

Ive got ways to make you talk
When I want you to
But who says that I do
Ooooh!
I would beat it out of you

If I wanted your viewpoint
Id make my black and blue point
Id extract at gunpoint
Your point of view

Ive got ways to make you talk
When I want you to
But who says that I do
Ooooh!
I would beat it out of you
If I wanted your opinion I would beat it out of you


Lauren London - additional vocals

Copyright 2012 Zach London

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Pale Mama Jones,
I'm curious
How'd you bloat those coffers
Odds are the gods are furious

Pale Mama Jones,
My Mama Jones always do the right thing
At the school bake sale, with her Dixie Cups
Of white lightning, lightning

Slip into your cleats
When you feel hoofbeats
You're a two-shoes goody
With your footy pajamas on
Devil's in the deets,
In the nosebleed seats
From the Mariana trench
To the Amazon

Pale Mama Jones,
I'm serious
How'd you bloat those coffers
Odds are the gods are furious

Got a few grays and a few stowaways in the sideburns
Little mean hairs messing round round
Guessing what your hide earns

Slip into your cleats
When you feel hoofbeats
You're a two-shoes goody
With your footy pajamas on
Devil's in the deets,
In the nosebleed seats
From the Mariana trench
To the Amazon

Hey, hey little thuggies,
Little little thuggies, hey hey


Victoria Gilbert - vocals
Lauren London - vocals
Laura Sagolla - vocals
Russell Schwartz - vocals
Geoffroy Sisk - lead vocals
Roy Sexton - vocals


Copyright 2012 Zach London

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There's justice in his lasso and his bullwhip
Justice in his bullwhip and his lasso
He serves the pie of justice with no Cool Whip
The only pie of justice in El Paso

Because he's cut from steel
Because he's cut from steel
They call him
Oatmeal
Oatmeal

Help us, Oatmeal!
Well, Pilgrim, you better call Oatmeal.
Thank you, stranger!
Fire rolls down the line, Maam.
Oatmeal, it's time to find your spirit flower.
We have to call him Oatmeal!

Oatmeal, you 're gonna save us
Fire rolls down the line
Oatmeal, you 're gonna save us
Fire rolls down the line
Fire rolls down the line
Fire rolls down the line
The line, the line

Fire rolls down the line
Fire rolls down the line
Fire rolls down the line
The line, the line


Lauren London - vocals
Scarlett London - voice of troubled girl
Rob Pace - harmonica
Russell Schwartz - voice of Oatmeal

Copyright 2012 Zach London

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