| The teacher had you write a letter, you were eight years old
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| About the man that you’d become and the positions you’d hold
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| But this was long before you and Jackie Geronimo met in the Prelude Park at
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| midnight
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| Now when it came to bells and whistles, Jackie did not lack
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| And when she kissed you on the kisser, boy, you kissed her back
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| Now you tell her that you love her and she cuts you slack
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| When you drink with your buddies on the weekend
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| And the weeks fly by and the years roll on
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| You spend your whole life dropping nickels in the bucket, wakin' up at dawn
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| And while Jackie bestowed the joys of fingerlickin'
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| The clock up on the wall was tickin'
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| You got yourself a job cleaning hospital floors
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| But Jackie had a baby, then she had five more
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| They’d pay you just enough to drag your ass to the store
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| To buy bread, milk and Better Homes & Gardens
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| Jackie flips the pages and she dreams little dreams
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| A cottage in the country built with real wood beams
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| There’s a baby in the bedroom, he’s starting to scream
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| She holds him though he probably won’t remember it
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| And the weeks fly by and the years roll on
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| Sometimes dreams are all you got to keep you going when the day gets long
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| And you gave up so many just to make a livin'
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| That clock up on the wall was tickin'
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| Now the kids are all grateful when they left the nest
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| And Jackie wasn’t perfect but she did her best
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| You seize the opportunity to get you some rest
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| But you can’t sleep on account of screaming grandkids
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| The golden years are meant to leave a gleam in your eye
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| You’re starting to discover it’s a great big lie
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| They’ll work you like a dog till you quit or you die
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| But you can’t quit cause Jackie needs the benefits
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| And the weeks fly by and the years roll on
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| They say patience is a virtue but the doctor says she don’t have long
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| You stood up and tried your damndest not to listen
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| But that clock up on the wall was tickin'
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| When they told you to clear the room, that’s when it hit you
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| You watched as the caravan took your sweetheart away
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| The arguments and fights and money troubles seem so worthless
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| As the kids throw yellow roses on her grave
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| And the weeks fly by and the years roll on
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| The house is quiet now and everything inside it seems to know she’s gone
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| There’s a picture of you both sixteen years old just kissing
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| And that clock up on the wall was tickin'
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| You always thought she had a chance and it was somewhere hidden
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| Now you’ve come to the conclusion that she never did
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| Not a chance, that is |