| I’m a town in Carolina
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| I’m a detour on a ride
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| For a phone call and a soda, I’m a blur from the driver’s side
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| I’m the last gas for an hour if you’re going twenty-five
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| I am Texaco and tobacco
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| I am dust you leave behind
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| I am peaches in September, and corn from a roadside stall
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| I’m the language of the natives, I’m a cadence and a drawl
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| I’m the pines behind the graveyard
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| And the cool beneath their shade
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| Where the boys have left their beer cans
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| I am weeds between the graves
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| My porches sag and lean with old black men and children
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| My sleep is filled with dreams, I never can fulfill them
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| I am a town
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| I am a church beside the highway where the ditches never drain
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| I’m a Baptist like my daddy, and Jesus knows my name
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| I am memory and stillness, I am lonely in old age
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| I am not your destination
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| I am clinging to my ways
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| I am a town
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| I’m a town in Carolina
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| I am billboards in the fields
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| I’m an old truck up on cinder blocks, missing all my wheels
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| I am Pabst Blue Ribbon, American, and 'Southern Serves the South'
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| I am tucked behind the Jaycees sign, on the rural route
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| I am a town
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| I am a town
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| I am a town, southbound |