| The wages of an unskilled working man never paid enough
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| From time to time the nickel race keeps him from giving up
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| The blue collared man in Seattle never lives on white collared street
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| But there was food on the table for my Washington woman and me
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| The work slowed down and then one day the foreman laid me off
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| That night in a tavern down to my last dime I met a girl from Arkansas
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| Her daddy was a banker in Little Rock, she had a mansion on white collared
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| street
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| The next morning my Washington woman woke up without me
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| From city to city and state to state I grew heavier with shame
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| My Washington woman had six months left before our child would bring her pain
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| My Arkansas woman hurt me as we crossed the Arkansas line
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| But the arms of Seattle were the arms that kept huggin' my mind
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| For years I’ve basked in expensive wines, taste cheaper every day
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| I gave up all the things I loved for all these things I hate
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| And locked up all of her forgiveness the day I set myself free
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| And the heart of my Washington woman stopped beating for me
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| My Washington woman sends me a letter every once in a while
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| Inside a folded wordless page is a picture of my child
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| All at once the room grows cold with a feeling of jealousy
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| And there’s a silence between my Arkansas woman and me |