| It was September in the '70s
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| Three of us flying in two seats
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| Holding the statues of sandalwood
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| The airport is filled with the neighborhood
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| In the back of an old white ambassador
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| You turn a deaf ear to your father
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| He gave you a grand from the black market
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| It stayed in the glove
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| You would not take it
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| So why the words on napkins for no one to read?
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| It’s never been black or white
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| Or what we thought it would be
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| You carry the cases
|
| She carries me
|
| Tell the eight-dollar story again
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| Tell the eight-dollar story again
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| An officer in blue, he welcomed you
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| Gave you the key to your living room
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| You took up the last carry-on
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| And laid out on jackets on the floor
|
| So why the words on napkins for no one to read?
|
| It’s never been black or white
|
| Or what we thought it would be
|
| You carry the cases
|
| She carries me
|
| Tell the eight-dollar story again
|
| Tell the eight-dollar story again
|
| Can we go back to the New Haven Green?
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| Two of you turning into three
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| We’ll read all the letters you never sent
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| And make the old places new again
|
| So why the words on napkins for no one to read?
|
| It’s never been black or white
|
| Or what we thought it would be
|
| You carry the cases
|
| She carries me
|
| Tell the eight-dollar story
|
| Tell the eight-dollar story
|
| Tell me the story again |