| There’s a white fence now
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| In the run-down yard of my first house
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| And it all changed
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| It’s getting harder and harder to say
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| Do you feel at home
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| Whenever you draw the windows
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| Open to let the light in?
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| Are your siblings still outside fighting?
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| I want to be totally reckless with you in suburban streets
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| Breaking into houses where we used to live
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| And sleeping under stranger’s sheets
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| Your friends say that they know what’s best
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| But I don’t think that’s true (Whoa-oh-oh-oh)
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| We both know that in a year or so
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| Everything will feel like new
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| To change like every road
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| That’s been repaved and painted
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| So what’s old seems more inviting
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| But a crash is still exciting
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| I want to be totally reckless, own all of our regrets
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| I’ll shoot at the cops while you hop the fence
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| I don’t care if they ever forget
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| Your friends say that they know what’s best
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| But I don’t think that’s true (Whoa-oh-oh-oh)
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| We both know that in a year or so
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| Everything will feel like new
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| So the next time you pass through
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| Could you remember how we
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| Framed ourselves when we were young
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| Next to where our guilt was hung
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| And nailed to the wall
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| Depicting everything we’re running from
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| So if home is where the heartache is, I hope
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| That the next time you pass through
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| It won’t feel that way for you
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| If we change the locks
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| There’s a chance that we could
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| Block out things we did before
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| On the other side of the door
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| If home is where the heartache is, I hope
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| It’s not for you |