| The other kids called him Conejo 'cause he was fast on his feet
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| And he was quick with his fists if he had trouble in the streets
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| But when his old man would hit the bottle, he’d kick Conejo’s ass
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| So with a wounded heart Conejo swore he’d out run his past
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| Run Conejo Run
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| He boxed lightweight at the Olympic down in dirty old L. A
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| And he earned his Golden Gloves by putting sixteen fighters away
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| But the seventeenth one nailed him and blinded his left eye
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| So with busted fingers and a battered brain, he kissed the ring goodbye
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| Run Conejo Run, Run Conejo Run
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| Run through the dark night to the rising sun
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| Run Conejo Run
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| He was singing in a barroom on the night that we crossed paths
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| We’d known each other all our lives but finally met at last
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| Then we ran these highways twenty years fueled by beer and nicotine
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| From New York to Nogales and every joint in between
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| Run Conejo Run
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| He told me his life story, his joys and his regrets
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| From the hot streets of Tucson to a cold prison in Quebec
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| From his ex-wives and old lovers and the promises they believed
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| To the daughter in Louisiana that he never wanted to leave
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| Run Conejo Run
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| Run Conejo Run, Run Conejo Run
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| Run through the dark night to the rising sun
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| Run Conejo Run
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| Well, it’s three hours past midnight and I’m driving Interstate Ten
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| A hundred miles out of El Paso and I’m thinking of my old friend
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| I know that I can’t see you but I can feel you by my side
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| So, light up a cig, Conejo, and let’s go for another ride
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| Run Conejo Run
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| Run Conejo Run, Run Conejo Run
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| Run through the dark night to the rising sun
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| Run Conejo Run |