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  1. Traffic
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The traffic in the morning drives you crazy
The radio drones like a poet
They found a baby in a dumpster
In the backstreets of Harlem
Now they're playing your favorite songs

A police car screams by like a banshee
And I just about remember Little China
How we woke up in our clothes
Wrapped around each other
Doesn't make it easier to get up

No were else to hide

I keep coming back o the same places
Like the Zombies that ride the subway end to end
Their eyes deep and dark
Like the tunnels the disappear down
And I can't help thinking I'm looking at myself

With nowhere left to hide