| It’s desert ice outside, but this diner has thawed my ears
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| Hot coffee in a clean white mug and a smile when the waitress hears
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| That I was born in North Carolina
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| Not an hour from her home town
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| And we used to play the same pizza parlor pinball
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| And there’s a glance in time suspended as I wonder how it is
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| We’ve been swept up just by circumstance to where the coyote lives
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| Where my days are strips of highway
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| And she’s wiping tables down
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| Holding on and still waiting for that windfall
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| But I’ve come home
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| Even though I’ve never had so far to go
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| I’ve come home
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| I pay the check and leave the change from a crumpled ten-dollar bill
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| Head across the street where VACANCY is burning in neon still
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| Well, the night eats up my body heat
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| And there’s no sign of another
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| And I find myself slipping down into that black
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| But things are good, I’ve got a lot of followers of my faith
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| I’ve got a whole congregation living in my head these days
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| And I’m preaching from the pulpit
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| To cries of, «Amen brother»
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| Closing my eyes to feel the warmth come back
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| And I’ve come home
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| Even though I swear I’ve never been so alone
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| I’ve come home
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| I just want to be living as I’m dying
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| Just like everybody here
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| Just want to know my little flicker of time is worthwhile
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| And I don’t know where I’m driving to
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| But I know I’m getting old
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| And there’s a blessing in every moment, every mile
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| Thin white terry, bars of soap and a couple little plastic cups
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| Old Gideon’s Bible in the nightstand drawer saying, «Go on, open up»
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| Well, I’ll kneel down on the carpet here
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| Though I never was sure of God
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| Think tonight I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt
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| I switch off the lights and imagine that waitress outlined in the bed
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| Her hair falling all around me
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| I smile and shake my head
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| Well we all write our own endings
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| And we all have our own scars
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| But tonight I think I see what it’s all about
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| Because I’ve come home
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| I’ve come home |