| West of Chicago the prairie begins
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| And all of the mad pandemonium ends
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| The fleecing, the fighting, the grifting, the lies
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| Give way to the tall grass and infinite skies
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| Eleanor lived there in a house on the plains
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| Where the winter, the wheat fields, the corn fields and grains
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| Made its own kind of music that only she heard
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| And each note for Eleanor had its own word
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| Eleanor’s song whispers along
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| High in the breeze
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| The trees
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| Endlessly filling the holes
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| In heartbroken souls
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| Oh tell me more
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| Please Eleanor (please Eleanor)
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| Sweet Eleanor
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| She knew no religion but she didn’t care
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| The earth was her church and her song was a prayer
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| She sang to the starlight, the moon and the sun
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| And under the thunderclouds timpani drum
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| Sometimes late at night when the trees are in motion
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| The fields are alive, wild as the ocean
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| Sending a chill from my head to my toes
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| If I just stay still and listen real close
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| Eleanor’s song whispers along
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| High in the breeze
|
| The trees
|
| Endlessly filling the holes
|
| In heartbroken souls
|
| Oh tell me more
|
| Please Eleanor (please Eleanor)
|
| Sweet Eleanor
|
| Sweet Eleanor |