| My name is william taylor
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| I was born in '24
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| too late to know the Great Fallen
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| in time to know the great fall
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| When my father died of money
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| my mother lived in spite
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| we laughed when nothing was funny
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| and how we wept when nothing was left
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| So I left there in boomtown
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| when I reached fifteen years
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| and I travelled mostly northeast
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| with my head held mostly down
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| 'Cause they said there was more in Baltimore
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| where those shipyards never close
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| you can sell the Man your labor
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| and send the money home
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| Broadway found me penniless
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| and the mission found me last
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| they gave me a coat and three days rest
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| and when I awoke and left
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| a shroud of steam surrounded me and I was borne away
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| and I found myself at Sparrows Point
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| with a slingshot in my hand.
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| And standing around me two thousand idle hands
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| their heads bowed low, their hopes not high
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| their hearts weaned of their homes
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| and their pockets full of photographs
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| and their eyes full of goodbyes
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| I took my place among my kind
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| and I held my place in line
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| Now I’m twenty one and well employed
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| and I send home most of my pay
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| which leaves plenty left for cigarrettes
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| to help me pass the days
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| with beloved friends surrounding me the cold streets so far away
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| three days west of Normandy
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| a rifle in my hand. |