| I was eight years old and running with a dime in my hand
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| Into the bus stop to pick up a paper for my old man
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| I’d sit on his lap in that big old Buick and steer as we drove through town
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| He’d tousle my hair and say, son, take a good look around
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| This is your hometown
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| Your hometown
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| This is your hometown
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| This is your hometown
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| In '65, tension was running high at my high school
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| There was a lot of fights between blacks and whites, there was nothing you
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| could do
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| Two cars at a light on a Saturday night, in the backseat there was a gun
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| Words were passed, in a shotgun blast troubled times had come
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| To my hometown
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| My hometown
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| My hometown
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| My hometown
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| Now Main Street’s whitewashed windows and vacant stores
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| Seems like there ain’t nobody wants to come down here no more
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| They’re closing down the textile mill across the railroad tracks
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| Foreman says, these jobs are going, boys, and they ain’t coming back
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| To your hometown
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| Your hometown
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| Your hometown
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| Your hometown
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| Last night me and Kate, laid in bed, talking about getting out
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| Packing up our bags, and maybe heading south
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| I’m thirty-five, we got a boy of our own now
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| Last night, I sat him up behind the wheel and said, son, take a good look around
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| This is your hometown |