| As footsteps echo softly to the early morning hours
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| The slowness of his moves should be a warning
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| But from the trash he digs
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| He patches socks and yesterdays flowers
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| What a way to start a Monday morning
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| He might have been a carpenter at one time in his life
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| And he built a lot of homes but never had one
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| Or he could have been a poet
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| Who had come upon some hard times
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| And all that he had lived was just his sad poems
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| He could have been a singer with a lot of promise
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| But cigarettes and whiskey ruined his throat
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| Now it was hard to remember even a simple tune
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| Or the words to songs that he had wrote
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| Now take me back to Memphis
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| I’ve got to do some thinking
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| 'Cause I’ve been in this city way too long
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| And it lays heavy on my mind
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| When I see another man
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| Having to make the sidewalks his home |