| Well, the pigeons ate the wedding rice
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| And exploded somewhere over San Antonio
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| I picked up the newlyweds and asked them
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| Where they wanted to go
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| They said «We don’t care, we don’t know, anywhere, just go»
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| Ever since I’d gotten married I started working weddings
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| Driving this long white limo
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| They’d had their ceremony in Brackettville
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| At that phony Alamo
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| We were 30 miles from the border of Mexico
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| Well, they’re in the back laughing about some uncle named Jack
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| Who got too drunk, and during his speech
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| The tears started to flow
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| Well, they seemed like a match
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| So I stopped looking for cracks in their road and just drove
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| Outside of Concan, the groom noticed the gold band on my left hand
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| And said «You got any advice for us, old man?»
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| Well, I thought for a mile as I drove with a smile
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| And I said, «When you are dating you only see each other
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| And the rest of us can go to hell
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| But when you are married, you are married to the whole wide world
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| The rich, the poor
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| The sick and the well
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| The straights and gays
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| And the people that say 'We don’t use those terms these days'
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| The salt and the soil»
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| After I’d said my piece
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| We drove on in silence for a spell
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| How my words had gone over, well, I couldn’t tell
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| Potent advice or preachy as hell
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| But when I see people about to marry
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| I become something of a plenipotentiary
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| I just think it’s good, as you probably can tell
|
| When two atoms from the Big Bang
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| Get back together with the old gang
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| I drop them at a fancy dancy boutique hotel
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| And I drive off alone, but I’m not alone
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| Sincerely, L. Cohen |