| I’m passing sleeping cities
|
| Fading by degrees
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| Not believing all I see to be so
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| I’m flying over backyards
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| Country homes and ranches
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| Watching life between the branches below
|
| And it’s hard to say
|
| Who you are these days
|
| But you run on anyway
|
| Don’t you, baby?
|
| You keep running for another place
|
| To find that saving grace
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| I’m moving on alone
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| Over ground that no one owns
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| Past statues that atone for my sins
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| There’s a guard on every door
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| And a drink on every floor
|
| Overflowing with a thousand amens
|
| And it’s hard to say
|
| Who you are these days
|
| But you run on anyway
|
| Don’t you, baby?
|
| You keep running for another place
|
| To find that saving grace
|
| Don’t you, baby? |
| (Oh)
|
| You’re rolling up the carpet
|
| Of your father’s two-room mansion
|
| No headroom for expansion no more
|
| And there’s a corner of the floor
|
| They’re telling you it’s your’s
|
| You’re confident but not really sure
|
| And it’s hard to say
|
| Who you are these days
|
| But you run on anyway
|
| Don’t you, baby?
|
| You keep running for another place
|
| To find that saving grace
|
| Don’t you, baby?
|
| You keep running for another place
|
| To find that saving grace
|
| Don’t you, baby? |