| In the back of a car on a road in the dark,
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| In the stillicide, silently falling snow,
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| I have packed everything that I own in a bag,
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| And I’m driving, I’m driving to Idaho,
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| A poem for leaving, a reason to go,
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| So I’m driving, I’m driving to Idaho.
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| 'Cause I can’t be anyone but me, anyone but me,
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| And I can’t keep dreaming that I’m free, dreaming that I’m free,
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| I don’t want to fall asleep and watch my life from fifty feet,
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| My hands are on the wheel so I’m driving to Idaho,
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| 'Cause I hear it’s mighty pretty…
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| And oh, I’ve been dumb, I’ve been perfectly beautiful,
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| Lain on my back buying lovers with stealth,
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| But I’m sick of you all, and I’m sick of opinions,
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| And I’m sick of this war I wage on myself…
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| I don’t know why I’m so gripped to go there
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| A universe riddle that only I know?
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| Mr. Robert he says, «It's all in the head!»
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| Tell me, Phaedrus, what’s good, is it Idaho?
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| 'Cause I can’t be anyone but me, anyone but me,
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| And I can’t keep dreaming that I’m free, dreaming that I’m free,
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| I don’t want to fall asleep and watch my life from fifty feet,
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| My hands are on the wheel so I’m driving to Idaho,
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| 'Cause I hear it’s mighty pretty…
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| In Idaho. |