| I’ve missed fathers' days and birthdays and Sundays with my sons
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| And hiking on the Blue Ridge with my daughter one-on-one
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| I’ve traded time for money, traded nursery rhymes for song
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| I’ve traded sleep for other dreams, traded always there for gone
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| Some dads run the country and some just run away
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| Some mop floors, some hang doors or anything that pays
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| I sing and play my music; |
| I take it across the land
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| This glimpse of muse is brought to you by Abe and Gabe and Mahala Ann
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| I didn’t travel when they were first born, no I kept the fires at home
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| With lullabies and early rise, I didn’t seek to roam
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| But the fire in me was growing; |
| I couldn’t keep it all inside
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| Now it’s passing trains and aerial planes and another ticket to write
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| Now some dads wear a three-piece suit, others boots and gloves
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| Some dads are out of work boys; |
| I hope we face it all with love
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| I sing and play my music with heart and lungs and hands
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| This message too is brought to you by Abe and Gabe and Mahala Ann
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| Sometimes I take them with me and one will pick my shirt out
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| And one will set the stage and one will count the money before we drive away
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| It goes without saying they made me what I am
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| A father who is singing too to Abe and Gabe and Mahala Ann
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| This glimpse of muse is brought to you by Abe and Gabe and Mahala Ann |