| I went home for christmas
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| To the house that I grew up in
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| Going back was something after all these years
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| I drove down monterey street
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| And I felt a little sadness
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| When I turned left laurel and the house appeared
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| And I snuck up to that rocking chair
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| Where the winter sunlight slanted on the screened-in porch
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| And I stared out past the shade tree
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| That my daddy planted on the day that I was born
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| And I let time go by so slow
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| And I made every moment last
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| And I thought about years
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| How they take so long
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| And they go so fast
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| Across the street the randol’s oldest daughter must have come home
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| Her two boys built a snowman by the backyard swings
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| I thought of old man randol
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| And his christmas decorations
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| And how he used to leave them up till early spring
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| And I thought of all the summers
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| That I paced that porch and swore I’d die of boredom there
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| And I thought of what I’d give to feel another summer linger
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| Where a day feels like a year
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| Then the door flew open, and my mother’s voice was laughing
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| As she called back to my daddy, «come and look who’s here»
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| And I thought about years |