| She was born in a place called Blue Valley
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| At the foot of the Tennessee hills
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| With the blue birds and blue bells
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| And blue mountain water
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| And the sound of the Blue Whippoorwill
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| But there was no peace in the valley
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| Her daddy, a cruel, ruthless man
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| Used and abused her mind and her body
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| So her mama said run while you can
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| So at fifteen she took to the highway
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| Belongings and guitar in hand
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| And she buried herself in her music
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| The one thing she did understand
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| And she sings like a bird and she writes like a poet
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| Her voice has that high, lonesome sound
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| She hurts, and her songs are the best way to show it
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| So the Blue Valley songbird keeps traveling around
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| She hopes someday she will make it
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| And everyone says that she will
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| When she comes to town, crowds flock around
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| To see the girl from the Tennessee hills
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| She writes her letter back home to her mama
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| In care of the preacher in town
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| They’re sacred to her so she reads them at church
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| And so her daddy cannot track her down
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| And she sings like a bird and she cries like a baby
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| Whenever she turns off the lights
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| She’s a whole lot lonesome and a little bit crazy
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| From memories and miseries and dreams gone awry
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| Blue dress, blue shoes, a blue Cadillac
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| A band dressed in blue by her side
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| Instruments tied to the top and the back
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| Because the Blue Valley songbird is singing tonight
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| One nighter’s, honky tonk’s, years flying by
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| She never made it, but Lord knows she tries
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| Expressing the feelings she holds inside
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| And the Blue Valley songbird is singing tonight
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| Oh the Blue Valley songbird is singing tonight
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| And she sings like a bird and she writes like a poet |