| Slavin' away
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| All for you my love
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| And i’ve nothin to show for it Cept my dusty old book full of pictures
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| A dusty old book
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| Tell me a story
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| Bout how i wasn’t so tired
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| From my slavin' away
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| I ran off
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| Put on corduroy knickers that i got from the coal shovelin' kid
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| And hitchhiked in a rickety old ford
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| Hitchhiked in a rattly old norton side car
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| Down strange roads
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| In the purrin' rain, as the poet put it On up to st. |
| Paul
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| On a cold day in the middle of the fall
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| And they picked me up for not wearin a dress
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| And suspended my sentence
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| If i wore somethin with a strap that was pink
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| And i scrubbed up on somebody’s sink
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| So now i catch the canadian pacific
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| And not be too specific, just somewhere up north
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| And get into lumber and slumber when i like
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| And in the spring ride down into cheyenne on my bike
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| I looked out the window
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| And i stuck my head out the door
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| And the snow was melting so slow…
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| And the sky was light but so gray…
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| Slavin' away
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| And all for nothin' my love
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| Cookin and washin in the morning
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| And startin at 9:25
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| I assemble six boxes of little plastic christmas trees
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| And put in the blue leds
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| On kid toy cell phones with borg batteries
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| And then on to the sewing machine
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| Stick the labels on purple t-shirts
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| And the arms on pull-over jumpers for the uk Slavin' away
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| All for you my love
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| And i’ve nothin to show for it
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| I’ve nothin to show for it I could see her lookin in the mirror at me Wonderin' if it wasn’t plain for everyone to see
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| Nothin ever seemed to turn out how it might be I could see her doubting now that all had gone and went
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| That anything she got was equal what that she’d spent
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| That she never seemed to get back what that she’d lent
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| Anyway they did have a son
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| And by the time he was married and i played at his wedding too at holy trinity
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| I was choir director myself
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| Rehearsals in the basement twice a week
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| I demanded we’d be in peak condition
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| And everything seemed to be going quite well
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| I got along well with the priest… |