| The speculators made their money on the blood you shed
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| Your momma’s pulled the sheets up off your bed
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| Profiteers on Jhames Street sold your shoes and clothes
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| Ain’t nobody talkin’because everybody knows
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| We pulled your cycle up back the garage and polished up the chrome*
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| Our gypsy biker coming home
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| Sister Mary sits with your colors, but Johnny’s drunk and gone
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| This old town’s been rousted, which side you on?
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| They would march up over the hill, this old fools parade
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| Shouting victory for the righteous for you must hear the grace
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| Ain’t nobody talkin', but just waiting on the phone
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| Gypsy biker coming home
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| Whoa!
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| We rode into the foothills, Bobby brought the gasoline
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| We stood around the circle as she lit up the ravine
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| The spring hot desert wind rushed down on us all the way back home
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| To the dead, well it don’t matter much 'bout who’s wrong or right
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| You asked me that question, I didn’t get it right
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| You slipped into your darkness, now all that remains
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| Is my love for you brother, life’s still unchanged
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| To him that threw you away, you ain’t nothing but gone
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| My gypsy biker’s coming home
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| And now I’m out countin’white lines
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| Countin’white lines and getting stoned
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| My gypsy biker’s coming home
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| Whoa!
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| La la la la La la la la La la la la
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| La la la la La la la la La la la la
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| La la la la La la la la |