| Somewhere in the cradle of the deep south
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| Magnolias sway in the breeze
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| To the lonesome sound of a Red Boned Hound;
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| Howlin' at the moon and the trees.
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| There’s a sad eyed boy, with his guitar;
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| Cuttin' his teeth on the blues.
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| Wishin' on a falling star, at 127 Rose Avenue
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| The distant moan of a midnight train,
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| comes blowin' through the night.
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| He dips his pen in tears and pain;
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| And he begins to write.
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| Bout a whippoorwill too blue to fly,
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| and the Indian he once knew.
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| Bout lost highways, and purple skies;
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| at 127 Rose Avenue.
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| ~CHORUS~
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| Caretaker said as he shook his head,
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| «Son to you believe in Ghosts?
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| For a five dollar bill you can feel the chill
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| that he felt long ago.»
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| So a I bought me a ticket at the front door;
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| guess who was there inside.
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| I felt his presence through the whole tour,
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| God I swear, he was alive.
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| I saw the train, I felt the pain,
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| I heard him moanin' the blues.
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| Twenty-nine years of memories;
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| At 127 Rose Avenue.
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| ~CHORUS~
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| Another side eyed boy with his guitar,
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| Cuttin' his teeth on the blues.
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| Here I am wishin' on a falling star,
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| At 127 Rose Avenue
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| Outtake:
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| It ain’t in Nashville…
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| It’s not in Montgomery…
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| 127 Rose Avenue… |