| On the hill where Custer was,
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| Making his last stand,
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| With the Indians all around,
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| And his gun in his hand.
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| Such a wind was blowing that day,
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| Through the battleground,
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| I could feel it in my hair,
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| As I turned towards downtown.
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| Weaving through the buildings,
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| Cutting though the streets,
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| Slicing through the culture,
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| Piling on the weeks.
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| Going home, I’m going home.
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| Going home, I’m going home.
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| Going home.
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| Dropping in on you my friend,
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| Is just like old times,
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| Said the fool who signed the paper,
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| To assorted slimes.
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| It’s hard to get blood from a stone
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| But for you I’ll give it a try,
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| To provide your accomodations,
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| And leave you satisfied.
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| You’d think it was easy,
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| To give your life away,
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| To not have to live up to,
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| The promises you made.
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| Going home, I’m going home.
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| Going home, I’m going home.
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| Going home.
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| Elusively she cut the phone,
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| Moved from cell to cell,
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| Really looking remarkable,
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| And obviously doing well.
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| She made a turn on a wooden bridge,
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| Into the battleground,
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| With a thousand warriors on the ridge,
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| She tried to turn her radio down.
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| Battle drums were pounding,
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| All around her car,
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| She saw her clothes were changing,
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| Into sky and stars.
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| Going home, I’m going home.
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| Going home, I’m going home.
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| Going home, I’m going home.
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| Going home, I’m going home.
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| Going home. |