| Staring at the pictures of the runaways on the wall
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| Seems like, these days, you couldn’t run away at all
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| And even if you did, what you got to run away to
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| Just another drunk daddy with a white man’s point of view
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| I can see you in my mind’s eye, catching light
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| Sleep beside the river if we make it out of town tonight
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| You can strip in Portland from the day you turn sixteen
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| You got one thing to sell and benzodiazepine
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| Ten years ago I might have seen you dancing in a different light
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| And offered up my help in different ways
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| But those were different days
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| Those were different days
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| Had a girl back home and we shared her single bed
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| When I whispered in her ear, she believed every word I said
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| If she didn’t believe, she didn’t dare give me slack
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| Or it was «Baby, I love you, get off of my goddamn back»
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| Time went by and I left and I left again
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| Jesus loves a sinner but the highway loves a sin
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| My daddy told me, I believe he told me true that:
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| «The right thing’s always the hardest thing to do»
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| Ten years ago I might have stuck around for another night
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| And used her in a thousand different ways
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| But those were different days
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| Those were different days
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| And the story’s only mine to live and die with
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| The answer’s only mine to come across
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| But the ghosts that I got scared
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| And I got high with look a little lost
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| Ten years ago I might have thought I didn’t have the right
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| To say the things an outlaw wouldn’t say
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| But those were different days
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| Those were different days |