| Next to your favorite tools
|
| A thermos keeps your warm
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| Wearing hand-me-down boots
|
| That your father had worn
|
| You wear a winter hat
|
| And with your freezing hands
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| You keep your finger on the trigger
|
| But you just sit and stare
|
| At the grass moving in the morning breeze
|
| You said the dirt felt softer down on your knees
|
| And now you look at your hands
|
| And they start to shake
|
| And now you look at your hands
|
| And they don’t look the same
|
| In the pickup truck that your father died in
|
| You have pictures of your brother playing with his three kids
|
| And then you look at your hands
|
| And they start to shake
|
| And then you look at your hands
|
| And they don’t look the same
|
| You’re red-eyed on the ride home
|
| Back from your mother’s house
|
| Where she was on her seventh glass
|
| And now you’re filled with doubt
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| That you’ll ever be something in her eyes
|
| Something so much more
|
| Than just the reason that she started drinking for
|
| You can’t ever go back
|
| I know you want to
|
| I know you want to
|
| You can’t ever go back
|
| I know you want to
|
| I know you want to
|
| It was on that hunting trip when you were a kid
|
| You lost your father
|
| Now you can’t hide from it |