| I found her sleeping in a Kansas truck stop
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| In the corner booth
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| She’d been waiting there for months
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| And that’s the truth
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| She looked at me with wary eyes
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| She’d heard all my lies
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| She was not surprised
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| She only looked at me
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| And shook her head
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| Come back, come home
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| I’m gathering the crumbs and the stones
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| Been travelling faster than my soul can go
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| One subject line, one click away
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| But at the end of the day
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| I couldn’t even say
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| The things that I had done
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| So I spent the morning sweeping floors
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| I didn’t want much more
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| Than to do just one thing at a time
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| And call it mine
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| Come back, come home
|
| I’m gathering the crumbs and the stones
|
| Been travelling faster than my soul can go
|
| Before songs were grooves and lines
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| Caught in jars like fireflies
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| The only place a song was held
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| Soft or razor-sharp
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| Was is in the heart
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| Mr. Gatling made a Gatling gun
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| He said it would end war
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| Who could send some mother’s son through such a door?
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| But the bullets move at the speed of cold
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| Drones do as they’re told
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| And the men go home at night and kiss the wife
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| And watch TV
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| And never see all those souls untethered floating out to sea
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| Come back, come home
|
| We’re gathering the crumbs and the stones
|
| Been travelling faster than our souls can go
|
| Come back, come home
|
| We’re gathering the crumbs and the stones
|
| Been travelling faster than our souls can go
|
| Faster than our souls can go
|
| Faster than our souls can go |