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i breathe the smoke you exhale, fill my lungs with scorching embers. the gasoline left a fiery trail, your blazing temper never fails.  
There is a gas manager named Hank, Who puts his currencies in a bank. He values handling propane Over him handling methane. He stuffs his work shirt with a gas tank.
In the summer we let our feet run black with dirt and pavement. Our heels pounded the sidewalks, our skin slapped the streets; each bound stung a little more than the one before.
We use gasoline, But what's the use? Soon it will all run out We'd better come clean, We're bursting at seam Before we're in total drought
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