| With your measured abandon and your farmer’s walk
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| With your «let's go» smile and your bawdy talk
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| With your mother’s burden and your father’s stare
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| With your pretty dresses and your ragged underwear
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| Oh you
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| With your heart-shaped rocks and your rocky heart
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| With your worn-out shoes and your eagerness to start
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| With your sudden lust on an old dirt path
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| With your candle-lit prayers and your lonely bath
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| Oh you
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| Now you stand at the station and you look at the sky
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| And the train rolled in and it went on by
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| You had packed up your suitcase, you had saved up the fare
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| And you don’t know why, but you’re still standing there
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| With your pledge of allegiance and your ringless hand
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| With your young woman’s terror and your old woman’s plan
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| With your sister’s questions and your brother’s tears
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| With your empty womb and the forsaken years
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| Oh you
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| With your barroom poems and your Sinatra songs
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| With your twenty notebooks each five pages long
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| With your secret hideout made of leaves and mud
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| With your pocket knife and your roaring blood
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| Oh you
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| Well, your children look at you and wonder
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| 'Bout this woman made up of lightning bugs and thunder
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| And they take in what you can’t help but show
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| With your name that is half yes, half no
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| With your jealous eye and your wish to do right
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| With your hungry arms and your sleepless nights
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| With your joy in the circle and your stories to tell
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| You walk around jangling the keys to your cell
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| Oh you
|
| Now it looks like rain and it’s all gone gray
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| And in a while there’ll be another sunlit day
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| And you won’t remember the half open door
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| Or the train that won’t even stop there any more
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| For you |