| Well, I’ve sung out one more evening,
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| and I’m wrung out, feeling beat.
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| I walk on out the door once more
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| to an empty city street.
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| A Good guitar will serve you well
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| when you’re living in the lights
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| but it’s never going to warm you
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| in the middle of the night.
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| And so I come and go with her in whispers.
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| Each and every time she says she dies.
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| When she is reborn again
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| I kiss her.
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| And the baby never cries.
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| She works in the daytime,
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| she leave her baby with a friend.
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| I sing every evening,
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| I only see her now and then.
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| I come to her at midnight,
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| when 'bout half the world’s asleep,
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| and she puts me back together,
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| in the hours before I leave.
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| Her apartment is down on Perry Street,
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| there’s a tree in her backyard
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| And it rubs the bedroom window
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| when the wind is blowing hard.
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| Her old man had left her,
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| he just took off for the coast,
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| and I caught her on the rebound
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| when I needed her the most. |