| Sam, bless him, has died and left this home
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| The woodchucks running wild, the bushes overgrown
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| Slip unseen into the skein of trees
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| Slide through dusky grasses and scatter his ashes
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| Oh, it is all over, he is never coming back
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| There will be no more roaming
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| He was only here for fourteen years
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| And now the branches scratch my face and I cannot hold back my tears
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| Long ago I did see him running in the snow
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| He would come in from the cold and he would lie down by the stove
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| Pass along this loping road
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| The needle grasp of briers on the slope
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| He would never been to church, so he does not have a soul
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| He is not waiting at the place where all of us will go
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| But the woodchucks would not run so wild
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| The bushes would not be so overgrown if we were not alone
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| Bound unbound through the boundless air, remaining wisps of hair
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| Barking out through everywhere
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| The trees, the grass, the rain
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| And Sam in the air
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| Oh, it is all over, he would never come back
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| There will be no more roaming
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| He was in this world, by my side he was curled
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| But he came uncurled and this world holds him that much tighter
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| That much tighter, that much tighter
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| That much tighter, that much tighter
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| Tighter, tighter, tighter, tighter
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| Tighter, tighter, tighter, tighter, oh |