| Johnny’s on the back porch drinking red wine
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| He knows that it could be the very last time
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| He raises the glass up to his lips and wonders
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| How could a boy from a little bay town
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| Grow up to be a man, fly the whole world round
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| Then end back up on the same damn ground he started
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| You might not get what you pay for
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| You know that nothing’s for sure
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| And an open heart looks a lot like the wilderness
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| Lately he’s been thinking ‘bout the meaning of time
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| The small amount we’re given must be some sort of crime
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| Yet the little we have feels like too much most of the time
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| He takes another sip of that blood red wine
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| Just waiting on the stars that will never align
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| A little luck, a little love, a little light and he’ll be doing just fine
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| But you might not get what you pay for
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| You know that nothing’s for sure
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| And an open heart looks a lot like the wilderness
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| So open up your heart, take it out
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| And put it back in
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| Signs are all around you
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| Let it begin
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| You might not get what you pay for
|
| You know that nothing’s for sure
|
| And an open heart looks a lot like the wilderness
|
| You might not get what you pay for
|
| You know that nothing’s for sure
|
| And an open heart looks a lot like the wilderness |