| Paper that’s quick to burn, and the cinnamon peeler
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| Beetles crushed that dye the carmine, well, I exist to be dreaming still
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| Kansas, Arkansas, my fields they’re always rich and in fire
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| Long work labor not worth our minds
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| And I long forgotten the feeling of silence
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| And if the roses need not tending
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| Until, until noon I’d sleep
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| Never could I have gone on that way
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| Because money’s not the thing that’s ever given me sight
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| Colorado, Wyoming, Helena into the Evergreen
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| And the wilds washed all thought of endeavor that was left in me
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| And would you ask my permission
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| The next time you absorb me?
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| Preserve my memory of the mystic west
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| As I lay no claim to the devotion I felt
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| Our conversation, it banks in me
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| And I had almost forgotten the nature of dawn
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| I thought of it for days after, even months after the moments were gone
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| But I’d get so lonely inside that room
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| No matter who would ever wait for me
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| I get so lonely inside that room
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| No matter who would ever wait for me |