| When I get up, she swears that she don’t hear it
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| Says that I’m as quiet as a mouse
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| I comb my hair and throw some water on my face
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| And back out of the stillness of our house
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| Lately, my patience is in short supply
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| Nothing good seems to ever come from all this work
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| No matter how hard I try
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| You know I believe in the Son, I ain’t no backslider
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| But my people were told they’d prosper in this land
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| Still, I know some who’ve never seen the ocean
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| Or set one foot on a velvet bed of sand
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| But they’ve got their treasure laying way up high
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| Where there might be many mansions
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| But when I look up, all I see is sky
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| Maybe it’s the getting by that gets right underneath you
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| It’d swallow up your every step, boy, if it could
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| But maybe it’s the stuff it takes to get up
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| In the morning and put another day in, son
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| That holds you till the getting’s good
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| Green ribbon front doors, dishwater days
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| This whole town is tied to the torso of God’s mysterious ways
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| Maybe it’s the getting by that gets right underneath you
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| It’d swallow up your every step, boy, if it could
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| But maybe it’s the stuff it takes to get up
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| In the morning and put another day in, son
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| That keeps you standing where you should
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| So put another day in, son, and hold on till the getting’s good |