| There’s a storm coming down on an old Southern town
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| They sway through the oaks and the pines
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| They crack and they splinter on the doorway to winter
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| They’re all born and living to die
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| Now it’s two years December since I seen that old river
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| And wonder if she’s running wild
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| Is she holding still and loosing her willows
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| Too tired from running miles
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| There’s a blackbird that flies on the edge of the night
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| Trying to find his way
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| He’s riding that line of darkness and light
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| Lost in the Blue Velvet Rain
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| Soaked to the bone and burning alone
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| A fire without any flame
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| He’s been in the wind of lies and excuse
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| Of feeling there’s noone to name
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| There’s a blackbird that flies on the edge of the night
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| Trying to find his way
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| He’s riding that line of darkness and light
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| Lost in the Blue Velvet Rain
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| Lost in the Blue Velvet Rain |