| Two dollars, twenty-seven cents
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| January seventeenth, 2006
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| Here in a diner with my friends
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| Talking about how the year went
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| A few years later I walk in Patti knew my drink
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| And she asked where the hell we’ve been
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| You used to come here every night
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| It’s not the same without you kids
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| I cut my hand on a piece of glass
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| The time we found Dave half dead in the parking lot
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| And spent the rest of the night in the ER
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| I cut my hand on a piece of glass
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| And I hope the scar lasts
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| So I don’t forget that
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| There’s been a table for me there
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| Through coffee eyes and blank stares
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| Our late night affairs
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| There’s always been a table for me there
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| So you can try to forget or say it’s the past
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| You know you’ll always end up right back where you left
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| I ended up here late at night on Thanksgiving
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| The fall that Colleen left
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| This was a place to call home
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| When it felt like the world didn’t want us I watched Mike slash Mon’s tires
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| We laughed about it later
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| I watched friendships dissolve
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| In the booth on the back wall
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| I cut my hand on a piece of glass
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| And I hope the scar lasts
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| There’s always been a table for me there
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| Through coffee eyes and blank stares
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| Our late night affairs
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| There’s always been a table for me there
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| So you can try to forget or say it’s the past
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| You know you’ll always end up right back where you left
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| There’s always been a table for me there
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| There’s always been a table for me there
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| There’s always been a table for me there
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| Through all of the years
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| There’s always been a table for me there
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| Through all of the years
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| There’s always been a table for me there
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| Through all of the years
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| There’s always been a table for me there |