| Leather jacket
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| Trip to Colorado, drinking from the bottle
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| Don’t wanna waste the glass
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| In the morning, I pray she’ll still be with me
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| Like the remnants of this whiskey, she’ll keep clouding up my mind
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| She wrote letters to the orphanage the year that she aged out
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| Came to town to pass the weekend and then never turned around
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| I was sixteen and a half years old, did what she said I should
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| Yeah, she’s good
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| I kept wandering
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| Singing 'bout my mother, trying to call my brother
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| Leaving messages at home
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| Despite my blessings
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| I felt hemmed in by the city, like a bird trapped in a chimney
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| Always crashing into walls
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| When I got back home to Georgia she was nowhere to be found
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| 'Til she sat right down beside me and said I should be the next round
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| I would cry but I think first things first, I’ll probably knock on wood
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| Yeah, she’s good
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| She don’t wanna need, anything like me
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| Now she’s laughing
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| Saying I’m so simple. |
| My fingers trace a dimple on the right side of her spine
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| Her Christian kindness, ran out of gas in Memphis
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| But her wanderlust is endless
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| So she kept on down the road
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| I don’t think that either one of us is ever going home
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| And I know enough about her to be sure there’s things I’ll never know
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| I can’t tell you how this ends, but bet you that she could
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| Yeah, she’s good. |
| It’s true. |
| She’s good |