| The old dirt road still winds by the hill
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| The house still has that country air
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| And memories live everywhere
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| But there’s nobody home
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| The winter sun still warms the sky
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| And from the rooftop, sparrows fly
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| I know the mailman passes by
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| But there’s nobody home
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| The swing hangs empty on the front porch now
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| But I can close my eyes and see
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| Momma sittin' there shelling butterbeans
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| Waiting for papa or waiting for me
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| I see the upstairs window pane
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| Where I would stand and watch the rain
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| Or listen to the evening train
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| But there’s nobody home
|
| The swing hangs empty on the front porch now
|
| But I can close my eyes and I can see
|
| Momma sittin' there shelling butterbeans
|
| Waiting for papa or waiting for me
|
| I see the upstairs window pane
|
| Where I would stand, I’d watch the rain
|
| Or listen to the evening train
|
| But there’s nobody home
|
| Or listen to the evening train
|
| But there’s nobody home |