| He believed in the things that he always thought he knew
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| And had done all the things that he always wanted to do
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| Collecting each thing, reflecting his worth
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| But now he pondered, how he had wandered this earth
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| For we all seem to give our lives away
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| Searching for things that we think we must own
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| Until on this evening when the year is leaving
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| We all try to find our way home
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| He had time or at least then he always thought he did
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| And mistakes, well he thought that time always would forgive
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| Each transgression for his intentions, forgetting
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| Years he squandered on things he now was regretting
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| For we all seem to give our lives away
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| Searching for things that we think we must own
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| Until on this evening when the year is leaving
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| We all try to find our way home
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| For we all seem to give our lives away
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| Searching for things that we think we must own
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| But on this evening when the year is leaving
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| I think I would be alright if on this Christmas night
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| I could just find my way home |