| This song is a letter sung to a special friend of mine
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| One who stopped his singing somewhere back along the line
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| I wondered if he’d had enough of the rip-offs and the jive
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| Or did he sing his song one night and lose the will to write
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| It never was a business deal, this thing with your guitar
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| It always seemed more a dance done deep inside your heart
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| Tonight I wonder if it’s true, like we felt it at the start
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| That an artist truly does it best when he does it from the heart
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| It seems to be much more than an art when the art you sell is you
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| Be careful how you play the game or else the game plays you
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| In the old days we’d stay up nights and laugh until we cried
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| You said songs don’t belong to us we just bring some thoughts to light
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| The rule of thumb is never give the truth away to rhyme
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| And a man can’t lie when he tries to sing it betrays him every time
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| We really write to understand more about ourselves
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| And if we’re lucky maybe then we touch someone else
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| Well, I just got back from Europe friend where they hung on every word |
| It made me feel a little better about my chosen line of work
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| They asked me if I knew you wrote a lot these days
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| I told 'em all I know is that you rarely ever play
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| We start out singing what we like and just give it all away
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| And wind up hating what we play and sit begging to be paid
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| So let me say in closing friend, I want you to know
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| I understand how hard it was to let your music go
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| An artist must decide which parts to leave in and take out
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| And if he no longer plays the game that’s what the game’s about |