| He’s got a U.S. flag on his front porch
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| To remind everyone where he lives
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| And up in the attic
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| There are papers that prove the old house is finally his
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| After thirty-five years
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| The grass still don’t grow
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| In that rock hard west Texas ground
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| Where my old dad still clings to that old coyote town
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| Like horses the pick-ups are parked out in front
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| Of a cafe that don’t need a name
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| Where the old men rock
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| And the tumbleweeds roll
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| Past the boarded up windows down Main
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| Waist high weeds hide a for sale sign
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| At the drive-in where my innocence died
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| With a rusty advertisement dangling by a nail
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| Says «Popcorn and Pepsi for a dime»
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| And down at the depot where I left for good
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| There’s a hobo with his three-legged hound
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| Waitin' for a train that no longer comes
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| To that old coyote town
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| And the interstate rumbles like a river that runs
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| To a rythm that don’t ever slow down
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| As cars and trucks and time pass by
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| That old coyote town
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| Daddy falls asleep in the living room
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| On the sofa with the TV on
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| Sometimes he waits for a phone call from me
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| Sometimes he waits too long
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| But I still think of the people and the place that he loves
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| How much longer will they be around?
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| Till its ashes to ashes
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| Dust to dust
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| For that old coyote town
|
| Like horses the pick-ups are parked out in front
|
| Of a cafe that don’t need a name
|
| Where the old men rock
|
| And the tumbleweeds roll
|
| Past the boarded up windows down Main
|
| And the interstate rumbles like a river that runs
|
| To a rythm that don’t ever slow down
|
| As cars and trucks and time pass by
|
| That old coyote town
|
| God bless that old coyote town |