| She was born in November 1963
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| The day Aldous Huxley died
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| And her mama believed
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| That every man could be free
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| So her mama got high, high, high
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| And her daddy marched on Birmingham
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| Singing mighty protest songs
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| And he pictured all the places
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| That he knew that she belonged
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| But he failed and taught her young
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| The only thing she’s need to carry on He taught her how to Run baby run baby run baby run
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| Baby run
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| Past the arms of the familiar
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| And their talk of better days
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| To the comfort of the strangers
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| Slipping out before they say
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| so long
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| Baby loves to run
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| She counts out all her money
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| In the taxi on the way to meet her plane
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| Stares hopeful out the window
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| At the workers fighting
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| Through the pouring rain
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| She’s searching through the stations
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| For an unfamiliar song
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| And she’s pictures all the places
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| Where she knows she still belongs
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| And she smiles the secret smile
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| Because she knows exactly how
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| To carry on So run baby run baby run baby run
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| Baby run
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| From the old familiar faces and
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| Their old familiar ways
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| To the comfort of the strangers
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| Slipping out before they say
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| So long
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| Baby loves to run |