| The children had all left home
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| The house was like a ship without a sail
|
| They headed for the sunset
|
| Where maybe they would find a holy grail
|
| The bedrooms were all rigged up
|
| The posters of my Marc Bolan — were ripped away
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| Each day was blessed with freedom
|
| As they would try to find something to say
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| She kept a little journal
|
| He scanned them out to see
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| If they could find Nirvana
|
| And where that place might be
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| She had lots of things to do
|
| They kept the plastic covers on the chairs
|
| It drove him around the twist
|
| They both were wondering what they might have missed.
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| He quibbled with ambition
|
| She fell into a rut
|
| They sat and read the papers
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| In sequence they would touch
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| The creeping realization
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| Like a punch in the gut
|
| Each day like the one before
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| The dreams evaporated
|
| As the weeks and months turned into years
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| The queasy feeling that they wanted more
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| He said his word was final
|
| She heard him slam the door
|
| Anytime she would pipe up
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| He heard it all before
|
| Although they blame each other
|
| Really they knew the score
|
| They were in this together
|
| Like children holding back tears
|
| They’ve come so far to end up
|
| With nothing down the years |