| Well you’re not from around here
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| You’re probably not our kind
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| It’s hot from March to Christmas
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| And other things you’ll find
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| Won’t fit your old ideas
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| They’re a line in shifting sands
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| You’ll walk across a ghostly bridge
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| To a crumbling promised land
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| If Jesus came from Mississippi
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| If tears began to rhyme
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| I guess I’ll start at the beginning
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| It’s a world of strange design
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| Well I’d like to have the ocean
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| But I settled for the rain
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| I humbly asked for true love
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| There was such a price to pay
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| This room was filled with trouble
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| And sacraments deceived
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| Now I’m a jewel in the shade
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| Of his weeping willow tree
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| If Jesus came from Mississippi
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| If tears began to rhyme
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| I’ll have to go back to the beginning
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| In this world of strange design
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| We talk about your drinking
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| But not about your thirst
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| You set off through the minefield
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| Like you were rounding first
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| So open up a window
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| And hand the baby through
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| Point her towards the ghostly bridge
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| And she’ll know what to do |