| The painter who’s been painting all his life
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| Ain’t a rich man he’s got children and a wife
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| But he keeps painting though he knows when he dies
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| He’ll still be poor
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| But his paintings make his life so much more
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| And he sings won’t somebody see what I have made
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| Don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid
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| Won’t somebody come and see the thing that makes me whole
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| Before the children of my mind become the orphans of my soul
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| The writer who’s been writing oh so long
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| Ain’t a rich man no one ever sings his songs
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| But he keeps writing
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| Songs he knows no ear we’ll ever hear
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| 'Cause he feels that if he stopped he’ll disappear
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| So he sings won’t somebody listen to my song
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| It won’t take long, it won’t take long
|
| Won’t somebody listen to the thing that makes me whole
|
| Before the children of my mind become the orphans of my soul
|
| Won’t somebody listen to my song
|
| It won’t take long, it won’t take long
|
| Won’t somebody listen to the thing that makes me whole
|
| Before the children of my mind become the orphans of my soul
|
| The children of my mind become the orphans of my soul |