| He left Boston in December for New Mexico
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| Determined to forget all of the faces he’d known
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| A little lonesome and a world of troubled mind
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| With a bed roll on his shoulder and a banjo on his knee
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| He would hitch a ride with truckers
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| He believed them to be free
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| Eighteen-wheelers roll a little further down the line
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| He did not meet a girl in Richmond nor in old San Antone
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| His vision of the Southwest would be realized alone
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| Alone to wonder
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| How his life had gone thus far
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| As he walked along the highway
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| He felt a power from inside
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| He found a miracle of living
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| In having nothing left to hide
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| He walked Carlsbad to White Sands
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| For forty days and nights
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| But it only took ten minutes for that man to realize:
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| Lord, it’s lonesome everywhere
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| Now he’s living back in Boston teaching English in high school
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| Glad to have bi-weekly wages
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| Glad the kids all think he’s cool
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| He’s a man who has learned from where he’s been
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| He keeps a bottle full of white sand on his table down the hall
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| And a worn map of New Mexico thumb-tacked on the wall
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| Oh, you never know
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| He may need to go again
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| As he walks along the hallway
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| He feels that power swell up from inside
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| And finds a miracle of living
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| In having nothing left to hide
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| Oh, it’s a miracle |