| There’s a bird making coffee in the kitchen
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| And there’s a rifle out back smoking cigarettes
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| He don’t ever really feel like talking
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| It don’t matter what she says
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| And the bird is always dreaming out the window
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| Looking at that big wide open sky
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| And the rifle, he used to be a dreamer
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| But he wasn’t meant to fly
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| Something down on the ground
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| Won’t let her out, it holds her in
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| And he’s afraid if she flies
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| She’ll never come home again
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| Something about the bird
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| And her spreading those wings
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| Always brings the rifle out in him
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| But the rifle loves the bird when she’s singing
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| And he knows every word to every song
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| And the bird, she loves the rifle
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| Cause he’s dangerous, stubborn and strong
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| Something down on the ground
|
| Won’t let her out, it holds her in
|
| And he’s afraid if she flies
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| She’ll never come home again
|
| Something about the bird
|
| And her spreading those wings
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| Always brings the rifle out in him
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| One night when the autumn wind was perfect
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| The rifle drank his whiskey and went to bed
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| And he never even heard the window open
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| And she ain’t come back in |