And when I'm dead and in my grave
No costly tombstone will I have
Just lay me down in my native peat
With a jug of punch at my head and feet
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A barrel of malt, a bushel of hops, you stir it around with a stick
The kind of lubrication to make your engine tick
never argue with an idiot, they'll just drag you down to their level and beat you with experience.
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