| You always seem to strike me
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| As a Helen of Troy
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| Sending sons off to war
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| Making men of boys
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| And grace ain’t hard to fall from
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| When you’re sitting up so high
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| It’s the way in which you tumble
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| The speed that you collide
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| Like a hammer with an anvil
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| Like a lake beneath the rain
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| With the lowest low you’ve ever known
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| In the age that you’ve obtained
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| Babe I’m bound for angels
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| Where the ten meets the five
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| I followed odd numbers up north
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| And the evens side to side
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| Being headed home
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| Is a special kind of hell
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| Where the fire that you burn in
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| Is one you built yourself
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| You know I keep a temper
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| Like the song of a small bird
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| Begging for sweet summer
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| To remember her
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| If home is where the heart is
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| I guess it’s just as well
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| I must have left my home in Denver
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| With a glowing girl
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| Talk to me of Texas
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| and the time you spent there
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| About that gypsy girl in a border town
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| And the visions she saw clear
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| With your skin as soft as sawdust
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| And a smile’s crooked charm
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| Baby, drinking helped to pass the time
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| But this is moving on
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| On a westbound road towards Tuscon
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| With the desert passing by
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| The sky hung like a hammock
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| Rocked me like a lullaby |