| It was my senior year
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| I just turned eighteen
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| I was a Friday night hero, with division one dreams
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| I had an offer on the table
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| A four year ride
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| 'Til that fourth and two and twenty four dive
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| I left on a stretcher, wound up on a crutch
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| Walked on that next summer
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| Wound up getting cut
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| I flipped off that coach, left that school in the dust
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| For letting my dreams go bust
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| But I thank God I ain’t what I almost was
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| Yeah, I moved on back home
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| And came awful close to being some son-in-law to some CEO
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| Could a been a corner office, country club, suit and tie man
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| Answering' to no one, but her and him
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| I ran out on his money, ran out on her love
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| At four in the morning I loaded my truck
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| I left my home town in a big cloud of dust
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| I just had to follow my gut
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| And I thank God I ain’t what I almost was
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| In guitar town I bought this old epiphone
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| Started stringin' chords and words into songs
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| I’ve been putting in time on Sixteenth Avenue
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| Pouring out my heart for tips on a stool
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| I ain’t making a killing, but then there’s those nights
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| When the song comes together and hits 'em just right
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| The crowds on their feet cause they can’t get enough
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| Of this music I make and I love
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| And I thank God I ain’t, yeah I thank God I ain’t
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| Man I thank God I ain’t, what I almost was |