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[al:280625] |
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it's knowing that your door is always open |
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and your path is free to walk |
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that makes me tend to leave my sleeping bag rolled up |
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and stashed behind your couch |
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and it's knowing i'm not shacked by forgotten words and bons |
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and the ink stains that have dried upon some line |
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that keeps you in the back roads by the rivers of my mem'ry |
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that keeps you ever gentle on my mind |
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it's not clinging to the rocks and i'd be planted on their columns now that bind me |
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or something that somebody said because they thought we fit together walking |
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it's just knowin' that the world will not be cursin' or forgiving |
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when i walk along some railroad track and find |
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you're movin' on the back roads by the rivers of my mem'ry |
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and for hours you're just gentle on my mind |
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though the wheet fields and the clothes lines |
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and the junk yards and the highways come between us |
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and some other woman crying to her mother cause she turned and i was gone |
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i still might run in silence tears of joy might stain my face |
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and a summer sun might burn me till i'm blind |
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but not to where i cannot see you walking on the back roads |
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by the rivers flowing gentle on my mind |