| «A daughter born the day they walked the moon
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| Somewhere on the edge of the Age of Aquarius
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| In the year her mother
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| Would have otherwise forgotten
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| July was very hot in North Carolina
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| So she left for Buffalo on a bus in the rain
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| With the steam off the asphalt still wet in her hair
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| And the pain of her soldier gone
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| Just sailed away
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| Before he was a soldier, he was just his mother’s boy
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| And that’s exaclty how she planned to keep him
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| His father died so long ago and he was all she had
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| Still she shared his love with a very young wife
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| And before the war things weren’t so bad
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| But every generation makes the same mistakes
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| And still they send their sons away to do the same
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| The mothers cry and the daughters die inside
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| And the sons like the fathers
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| March
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| Whose hair was longer? |
| I think his, she might say
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| But in the army they cut it all away
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| Too much room for wild thoughts to grow
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| And in the spring of his child’s first year
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| The father, hey the son, the husband
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| Under beautiful sky, youth like fire in his eyes |
| He gave his life for nothin'
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| No, nothin' at all, they said
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| So many years and the pain it still remains
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| And now her daughter’s man will sail away
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| Politics and promises forever the same
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| We take away and sacrifice what we cannot replace
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| And every generation makes the same mistakes
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| And still they send their sons away to do the same
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| And the mothers cry and the daughters die inside
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| And the sons like the fathers
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| Now the sons and the daughters
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| March
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| Buffalo in the winter, bitter as it is
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| Is home for three generations of widowed brides" |