| Summer of 1978
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| My sister and I in the back seat just wait
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| We pass the time by making lines in the seat that we can’t cross
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| A thin line like dental floss
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| She threw my new blue comb out the window, somewhere on I-70
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| Dad said, «I'm sorry, but we can’t go back,»
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| We’re never going back to get it
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| It was the first comb I ever had
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| Got it just that morning from my mom and my dad
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| Light blue in color, I could never have another
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| Comb like that, big and fat…
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| So tell me, have you seen my comb?
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| Last time I saw it, it was in her hands
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| And then it was bouncing down the road
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| It wasn’t fancy, it wasn’t brown
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| But now it might be from lying on the ground
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| So tell me, have you seen my comb?
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| Driving down the road in September
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| I was only five but I still remember
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| Where the highway turns at the bottom of the hill
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| My parents both up front 'cause they loved each other still
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| Maybe just a comb made of plastic
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| Or an action of a sibling lacking couth
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| But something that was thrown out that window
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| Was the last great symbol of my youth
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| Have you seen my comb?
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| Last time I saw it, it was in her hands
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| And then it was bouncing down the road
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| It wasn’t fancy, it wasn’t brown
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| But now it might be from lying on the ground
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| So tell me, have you seen my comb? |