| We drove from coast to coast
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| Looking for all the ghosts of the fathers and patriots
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| We heard about from the past
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| All we found were hollow hearts and half-built homes
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| Empty pockets and dirty stitches poorly sewn
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| Constantly my hands are shaking
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| What’s left of these worn-out streets?
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| They crack
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| They break under blistered feet
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| What’s left of where we’re from?
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| What’s left
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| What’s left of where we’re from?
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| Cut the country in half with wheels
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| Just to see if she still feels anything
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| Miles and miles of desperate dreams
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| Open skies won’t let us sleep
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| And we stood in rain-soaked, soaked soil
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| «Are we proud of where we stand?»
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| «Are we proud of what we’ve seen?»
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| And we stood in rain-soaked, soaked soil
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| «Are we proud of where we stand?»
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| «Are we proud of what we’ve seen?»
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| ‘Cause honestly my hands are shaking
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| It’s not the reds and blues that make this great
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| It’s the color that remains when it all fades to gray
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| It’s when we stare into the darkness and not turn away
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| That makes me want to stay
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| What’s left of where we’re from?
|
| What’s left
|
| What’s left of where we’re from?
|
| Cut the country in half with wheels
|
| Just to see if she still feels anything |