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​Junk Bond Trader

This song is by Elliott Smith and appears on the album Figure 8 (2000).

The imitation picks you up like a habit; writing in the glow of the TV static
Taking out the trash to the man; give the people something they understand
A stick man flashing a fine-line smile; junk bond trader tryin'a sell a sucker a style
Rich man in a poor man's clothes; the permanent instalment of the daily dose

And you tell off when you tell it like it is; your world's no wider than your hatred of his
Checking into a small reality; boring as a drug you take too regularly
The athlete's laugh, the broken crutch; the first true love that folded at the slightest touch
Brought down like an old hotel; people digging through the rubble for things they can resell

"Happy holidays", said sick savior; the leaving lover that I still favor
I won't take your medicine; I don't need a remedy to be everything I'm supposed to be
I don't want nobody else; I can do it by myself. We're meant to be together
Ah, ah

Now I'm a policeman directing traffic, keepin' everything moving, everything static
I'm the hitchhiker you recognize passing on your way to some ever-lasting

Better sell it while you can
Better sell it while you can
Better sell it while you can
Better sell it while you can