| I’m no longer the newborn, lord that’s all I know as true, I’ve returned from
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| the ocean, craddlin' the Denver Boot
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| Bare feet walk the hills of Frisco, soft boys cut their eyes to me
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| The truth is I let my down my Father, I throw my boots back in the water,
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| they are hollow, they are hollow
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| At the dear goat farm outside Denver, Father was living in his broken down coupe
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| The helling held him in a bad way, his body revenged as he asked for the truth
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| I cradled my Father in my arms, with my nails I scraped the sick away,
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| I put my nail clips in a bottle, a trophy on the dash… but when the sun
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| shine through the bottle it is hollow, it is hollow
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| I can’t wear the Denver boot
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| I will bronze my Father’s body
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| Mount it outside my factories
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| The first will be a see-through glassworks
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| The other will be a true goat farm
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| I will blow perfect bottles
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| I will squeeze the goats myself
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| I will drown the world of it’s helling
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| I hope my will don’t come up hollow…
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| Hollow… |