| There was a man whose memories were made up
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| Of nothing
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| He pushed the elevator button, and go home
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| To nothing
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| Yes his business had prospered but women get lonely sometimes, now she has the
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| house
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| His son in college had dropped out
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| To expand his mind
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| And Sarah, his daughter had not spoken to him
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| Maybe he’d raised her the wrong way
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| He wondered
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| He checked his mailbox, with fingers a-tremblin'
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| No mail, from anyone
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| «I'm home?» |
| he said softly, as he opened the door and gazed at his empty
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| apartment
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| Aching, thinking
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| Southbound Jericho Parkway
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| Is what you call a one-way street
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| Southbound Jericho Parkway
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| Is what you call a one-way street
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| At 7.20, monday after New Year
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| Mister Henry Johnson leaned against the pedal
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| Aimed his Lincoln steady and drove himself into a wall
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| How could a thing sush as this ever happen
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| All the community said it was shame
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| He was a good man, he was a clean man. |
| yeah
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| That was it: he was a good, clean man
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| And his landlady said he was an exemplary tenant
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| They’re always nice and quiet when they’re all alone
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| At his age
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| The young man sat, on a small woven mat
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| While the silken smoke it cirlcled over head
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| The cigarettes were there to prove he didn’t care
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| 'Bout the contents of the telegram he’d just read
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| Father, father, father
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| You always seemed to be so out of reach
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| And the psychedelyc sign read: peace
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| Apartment in New York, a girl closes the door
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| And leans against it with her head bowed low
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| Thoughts raced through her mind
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| Of when she was a child
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| Raised warmly by a man she didn’t know
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| Father, father, father
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| She wished she had phoned him yesterday
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| There were so many things she had to say
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| Henry, the check is in my hands
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| Brought by the insurance man to cover all my plans
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| We’ll have flowers, your broker will be there
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| And Sarah, if she cares, and our boy with all his hair
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| And the sun rose, and the sunset
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| As it always has
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| And people yet unknown, were busy being born
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| And time when past |