| There’s a letter at my mother’s house
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| It came with a folded flag
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| It says right now I’m coming home
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| In a body bag
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| It’s a pride and a pain that are one and the same
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| It’s a burning cigarette, it’s a horrible dream
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| There’s a man in an office who’s going through files
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| And a woman who watches TV
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| And she doesn’t get the jokes
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| Told by the late night talk show hosts
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| But for some reason she laughs anyway
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| There’s this soap in my bathroom
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| And it’s all covered in hairs
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| There’s this hope in my brain
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| And it’s all covered in prayers
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| There’s a girl in this town who doesn’t know I exist
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| There’s a wounded sense of pride and a pain in my fist
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| There’s twelve empty bottles on this table tonight
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| There’s four lungs on fire and four burning eyes
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| And something will explode
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| And someone will cry
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| And someone will run out
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| And never turn around
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| There’s a park in the city where I used to go
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| But now it’s covered with fences and cops and light posts
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| And I’d never go back even if it was the same
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| But it kills me to know that it’s changed
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| There’s these kids who have dreams
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| And there’s these dreams that will grow
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| Until they get so goddamn big
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| That they explode
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| And what’s left in the smoke and the falling debris
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| Is grownups like them and losers like me
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| And what’s left in the smoke and the falling debris
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| Is grownups like them and losers like me
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| Grownups like them and losers like me
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| Grownups like them and losers like me
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| Tonight let’s go walking down Clark Street
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| And look at the buildings that we’ve never seen
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| We’ll stop at the bar and pass out on the floor, tomorrow we’ll forget
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| everything
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| And we’ll replay these days again |