| Well I come from the rural Midwest
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| It’s the land I love more than all the rest
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| It’s the place I know and understand
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| Like a false-front building
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| Like the back of my hand
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| And the men I knew when I was coming up
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| Were sober as coffee in a Styrofoam cup
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| There were Earls and Rays, Harlans and Roys
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| They were full-grown men
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| They were barbed wire boys
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| They raised grain and cattle on the treeless fields
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| Sat at the head of the table and prayed before meals
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| Prayed an Our Father and that was enough
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| Pray more than that and you couldn’t stay tough
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| Tough as the busted thumbnails on the weathered hands
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| They worked the gold plate off their wedding bands
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| And they never complained, no they never made noise
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| And they never left home
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| These barbed wire boys
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| 'Cos their wildest dreams were all fenced in
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| By the weight of family, by the feeling of sin
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| That’ll prick your skin at the slightest touch
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| If you reach too far, if you feel too much
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| So their deepest hopes never were expressed
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| Just beat like bird’s wings in the cage of their chest |
| All the restless longings, all the secret joys
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| That never were set free
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| In the barbed wire boys
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| And now one by one they’re departing this earth
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| And it’s clear to me now 'xactly what they’re worth
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| Oh they were just like Atlas holding up the sky
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| You never heard him speak, you never saw him cry
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| But where do the tears go, that you never shed
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| Where do the words go, that you never said
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| Well there’s a blink of the eye, there’s a catch in the voice
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| That is the unsung song
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| Of the barbed wire boys |