| No you can’t always tell one from another
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| And it’s best not to judge a book by it’s tattered cover
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| I have found when I tried or looked deeper inside
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| What appears unadorned might be wondrously formed
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| You can’t always tell but sometimes you just know
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| 'Round here we throw geodes in our gardens
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| They’re as common as the rain or corn silk in July
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| Unpretentious browns and grays the stain of Indiana clay
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| They’re what’s left of shallow seas, glacial rock and mystery
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| And inside their shines a secret bright as promise
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| All these things that we call familiar
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| Are just miracles clothed in the commonplace
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| And you’ll see it if you try in the next stranger’s eyes
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| God walks around in muddy boots, sometimes rags and that’s the truth
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| You can’t always tell, but sometimes you just know
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| Some say geodes were made from pockets of tears
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| Trapped away in small places for years upon years
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| Pressed down and transformed, 'til the true self was born
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| And the whole world moved on like the last notes of a song
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| A love letter sent without return address
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| No you can’t always tell one from another
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| And it’s best not to judge a book by it’s tattered cover
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| I don’t open them to see folks 'round here just like me
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| We have come to believe there’s hidden good in common things
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| You can’t always tell but sometimes you just know
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| You can’t always tell but sometimes you just know |