| Dada dum-da dadada dum-da
|
| Where it’s at
|
| Dada dum-da dadada dum-da
|
| Where it’s at
|
| He’s a man who knows most everything
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| Of anything at all
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| Tells a story of psychology
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| And his story never falls
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| He’s a man who wears a portobello yellow bill-bob hat
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| He’s a man who knows exactly where it’s at
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| He’s a man who draws illusions
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| And he carves them on a tree
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| Including all the love he found
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| He gives to you and me
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| And I don’t even know his name
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| But I surely promise that
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| He’s a man who knows exactly where it’s at
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| Roaming around from place to place
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| He takes in all that he sees
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| He notices the good things that please him
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| He watches all the bad things that grieve him
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| But he loves everybody and he knows just where it’s at
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| He was born of Gypsy parenthood
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| And he’s always lived the land
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| And if people who would talk to him
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| Just cannot understand
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| But no matter what they say of him
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| They’ll always tell you that |