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Swim for your supper And you'll be better off, says Barb'ra Bush. Her heads up her tush, my dears. Swim off to Houston where she will let you Sleep on a flimsy cot, Where like as not you'll stay for years. She heard from the bird in charge You're willing to pay your way Bailing her Bushie's hay – Three ninety-five a day. So bail for your supper And telll her her state is great Just don't admit you can't wait To leave A place where dopes are that naïve.
Music by Richard Rodgers |