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Wolf City, you're a pearl without pity
Your glory is like ice cream dripping on the skin of a girl
And your voodoo-graph is going to conquer the world
While the greyhound leans back in the president's chair
Thousands of children on their way home gasp for fresh air
Your servants set up a lean-horse-monument
In the alleys of cars, a queue with no end
And thousands of cows rush into bars
On a wall I see many strange signs
They say: Johnny B. Goode!