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Slide down that pickle weed hill, la la la, I donât remember her name but I remember her well, after school by the cinder block wall in the canyon where the pine trees fell â the twins next door were trouble, la la la, one was a pyromaniac and their mother reeked of alcohol, spying on them by the water tower with the girl whose name I cannot remember â the sad songs of the 70âs, la la la, playing soft from a radio at the bottom of our stairs, mama crying up in her bed for hours and hours â down the hill to the race track fair, la la la, I saw Buck Owens once and the Buckaroos singing there, a whole room filled with model trains and behind glass tiny tanks and airplanes â a giant window with a view of the ocean, la la la, splitting the grey between the sea and sky an oil tanker on the horizon, there is nothing moving now I am floating up and out â slide down that pickle week hill, la la la, I donât remember her name but I remember her well