| Like a song you have sung
|
| Ever since you were young, little baby boy
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| The words tattooed upon your tongue
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| You can tell the right from wrong
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| Know your mothers and fathers of generations
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| You know where you belong
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| All though this song is drifting like a gas
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| Played on a guitar made of driftwood
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| Strings of grass
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| It’s hard to catch, impossible to stop
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| Now, go with the flow, with the rhythm, the rhyme
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| The stampin' on the floor
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| I put a chalk in my hand, draw a land
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| Draw the lines for rivers and streets
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| Raise a mountain made of concrete
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| Grab a stone, pick some straws, build a shelter
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| Please come here, I’ll let you in
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| I hold you tight against my skin
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| Oh love, the hissing sound of you
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| Whining like a harsh hymn
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| Howling like a blues
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| I know you’re impossible to stop
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| So I go with the flow, with the rhythm, the rhyme
|
| The stampin' on the floor
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| Let it blow, let it blow
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| Just don’t let me know
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| Where it will blow
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| Let it blow, let it blow
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| Just don’t let me know
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| Where we will go
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| Hold my breath, I can’t control
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| I’m sliding, falling down in a hole
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| Oh, wow! |
| Oh, man, love is like no other song
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| Oh, please let them in
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| Let the choir sing
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| To the beat, to the flow
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| The stampin' on the floor
|
| Now what about the things I’ve learnt
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| I stare at the blue sky
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| Potatoes getting burnt
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| I can’t explain, but nothing seems too far away
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| I can have it if I’d like
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| I think I can, if I dare
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| Like a song you have sung
|
| Ever since you were young, little baby boy
|
| The words tattooed upon your tongue
|
| You must know the right from wrong
|
| Know the rhythm, the rhyme, the beating
|
| The stampin' on the floor
|
| Let it blow, let it blow
|
| Just don’t let me know
|
| Where it will blow
|
| Let it blow, let it blow
|
| Just don’t let me know
|
| Where we will go
|
| Where we will go |