| From this angle, the earth isn’t straight
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| And the wheat fields blow, bending, except the patches they ate
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| From this framing, the fencing’s askew
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| And the wood wears its splinters and the weight of morning dew
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| Wild goats on the hilltop, o’er side
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| Some try to shoot 'em, yeah, my friends, they tried
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| But before you go hunting, there is something you should know
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| I want to be with them wild goats
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| Where the leaves wilt and fall short of shore
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| And the frost builds like spiders, its web’s 'long the floor
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| Where the smoke ends, and the rushing waters spill
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| And the embers keep burning, despite the air chill
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| Wild goats on the hilltop, o’er side
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| Some say to shoot 'em, yeah, my friends, they tried
|
| But before you go hunting, there is something you should know
|
| I want to be with them wild goats
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| I want dirt in my handprints
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| Like my Uncle Kevin’s got
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| I want sun in my eyes and sweat in my air
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| But it’s not my lot
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| Well, you can keep me right here, in the comfort of the quiet
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| 'Cause this city is strangling my sky…
|
| Wild goats on the hilltop, o’er side
|
| Some try to shoot 'em, yeah, my friends, they tried
|
| But before you go hunting, there is something you should know
|
| I want to be with them wild goats
|
| In my position, I can peer 'cross the scrub
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| And the light dapples neatly over wet rocks and mud
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| In my new standing, I can see my surrounds
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| And the stories I’m told of snow on higher ground
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| Wild goats on the hilltop, o’er side
|
| Some try to shoot 'em, yeah, my friends, they tried
|
| But before you go hunting, there is something you should know
|
| I want to be with them wild goats… |