| By the foot of a mountain lives an old man
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| Who sits all day and hopes things will come his away
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| And the first time ever I passed by his way
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| He called me: «son, come on over here»
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| He said: «Although you may not know me
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| But deep down, something tells me
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| That you’re just going astray
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| So relax here and hope love will pass tour way
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| Though I try to live good among by brethren
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| They always act as if they can’t accept it
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| And so now I’m tired of being trated this way
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| I’ve got to return where I know love will pass my way
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| So when I reach home, I shall sing the song
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| Of love to you
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| To you, to you, to you. |