| I wait on tables here
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| Ain’t quite how I planned it
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| Pay’s not that great, but I do alright in tips
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| I took the job to get me by
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| When my husband left me stranded
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| I still don’t know just where the hell he is
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| After dark, six nights a week
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| I pull this apron snug
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| Glance up at a dusty TV blaring local news
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| Then I’m everybody’s best friend
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| Dealing coffee like a drug
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| The whole place smells like fries and diesel fuel
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| Every shift is different
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| And every shift’s the same
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| Someone’s driving to the Promised Land
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| Or they’re running from the pain
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| It’s mostly long-haul truckers, runaways and thieves
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| Everybody’s got somewhere to go
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| They all stop here on their way to Mexico
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| I still think about that gal
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| Who came from Tucumcari
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| Off to find her sister that she just found out she had
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| And those young lovers on the run
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| She wasn’t old enough to marry
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| Then the cops showed up with one really pissed off dad
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| Every shift is different
|
| And every shift’s the same
|
| Someone’s driving to the Promised Land
|
| Or they’re running from the pain
|
| It’s mostly long-haul truckers, runaways and thieves
|
| Everybody’s got somewhere to go
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| They all stop here on their way to Mexico
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| With each passing of a season
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| I wonder if I’m stuck
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| Or maybe I’m waitin' for a reason
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| Or a helping of good luck
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| It’s mostly long-haul truckers, runaways and me
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| Maybe I’ll head south again, who knows
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| We all stop here on our way to Mexico |