| I’ll ride again o’er the border, if it takes me all my days,
|
| Where the sun rises through the pollution & sets her walls ablaze,
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| Gimme somethin to help with the shakin' or to kill the roarin' pain,
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| It’s the sound of a sweet heart breakin' 400 miles
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| away.
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| Oh, have ye known the sting of sweet regret?
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| Or have ye no started living yet?
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| And the cheap lousy dram trembles there in his hand
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| as he struggles to recall what she wore,
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| He can still see her face in that charming old plac
|
| e & he’ll never forget how she swore,
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| 'In all fairness' he says, 'it's all good I suppose'
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| And his eyes turn the colour of his crooked old nose,
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| He drains the tumbler & straightens his clothes,
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| And he’s away with the wind, away.
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| In all these broken windows, through the tattoos and the scars,
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| He’ll catch his own reflection across a thousand other bars,
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| Until he rides again o’er the border, if it takes him all his days,
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| To where the sun rises through the pollution,
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| 400 miles away. |