| Sunday morning, my Rebecca sleepin' in with me again
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| There’s a kid outside the church kickin' a can
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| When the cedar branches twist she turns her collar to the wind
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| The weather can close the world within its hand
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| And my mother says Rebecca is as stubborn as they come
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| They both call to me with words I never knew
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| There’s a bug inside the thimble, there’s a band-aid on her thumb
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| And a pony in the river turning blue
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| They say, «Time may give you more than your poor bones could ever take»
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| My Rebecca says she never wants a boy
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| To be barefoot on the driveway as they wave and ride away
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| Then to run inside and curse the open door
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| I once gave to my Rebecca a belated promise ring
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| And she sold it to the waitress on a train
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| I may find her by the phone but with a fashion magazine
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| She may kiss me when her girlfriends leave again
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| They say, «Time may give you more than your poor bones could ever take»
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| I think I could never love another girl
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| To be free atop a tree stump and to look the other way
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| While she shines my mother’s imitation pearls
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| Sunday evenin' my Rebecca’s lost a book she never read
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| And the moon already fell into the sea
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| Saw the statues of our fathers in the courthouse flower bed
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| Now they blend with all the lightnin'-tattered trees
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| They say, «Time may give you more than your poor bones could ever take»
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| My Rebecca said she knew I’d want a boy
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| A dollar for my boardwalk red balloon to float away
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| She would earn a pocketful to buy me more
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| Dun, dun dun, dun dun
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| Du-dun dun dun dun dun dun
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| Dun, du-dun, dun du-dun
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| Du-dun dun dun dun dun dun |