| The hurricane party’s windin' down
|
| And we’re all waitin' for the end
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| And I don’t want another drink
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| I only want that last one again
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| He gave me such a fine glow, smoky and slow
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| Now I should probably be homeward bound
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| There’s just no one to talk to
|
| When the lines go down
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| I guess that in the morning I’ll go lookin'
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| For my gray-striped cat
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| My old house can take the weather
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| So I’m not too concerned about that
|
| It was built to take the wind back in nineteen-and-ten
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| When this was one damned fine town
|
| But now there’s no one to talk to
|
| When the lines go down
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| Candles flickered on the back bar
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| And the buildin' was shakin' with the wind
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| I bought a whiskey for the gypsy
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| And she turned my leather back into skin
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| Just a fleeting sense of that rare suspense
|
| I once thought made the world go around
|
| But now there’s no one to talk to
|
| When the lines go down
|
| Open up your back screen door
|
| Let me see your face once more
|
| My hands are cold and my feet so sore
|
| And I can’t go on this way
|
| And the thoughts come too fast and too many to keep count
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| Best just let 'em on through
|
| Now I’m breakin' those glass insulators
|
| With my old .22
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| Off the telephone polls as a half dollar rolls
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| Across the knuckles of a rodeo clown
|
| There’s just no one to talk to
|
| When the lines go down
|
| My one great love
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| My God, I can feel her still
|
| She ran off to California
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| And now she’s livin' in those Hollywood hills
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| With some bullfrog prince, I’ve not seen her since
|
| Though she calls when he’s out of town
|
| And there’s no one to talk to
|
| When the lines go down
|
| Open up your back screen door
|
| Let me in your space once more
|
| I was looking for an easy score
|
| But it just don’t work that way
|
| Some insurance-man biker
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| Is yellin' out for one more beer
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| But a part-time pirate
|
| Just can’t get much respect around here
|
| We got our problems too, man we’ll get to you in just a minute
|
| Sit your drunk ass down
|
| Yeah, there’s no one to talk to
|
| When the lines go down
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| Now there’s water up past the wheel wells of my Ford
|
| And I don’t guess that it’ll run
|
| But I left a pack of Winston’s on the dash
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| Could you fetch 'em for me son?
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| The morning’s first cigarette, that’s as good as it gets all day
|
| I should know by now
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| That there’s no one to talk to
|
| When the lines go down |