| Every now and then he fishes through the dirt piles
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| He’s the local street bum,
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| from which everyone witholds their smiles
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| He gave no concern to the judgments that other people made
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| and walked right inside the junkyard, unafraid
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| Closer and closer he gets, to the spot where I reside
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| one object after the next, he tosses aside
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| And I cannot lie, I’m hoping that he’ll pick me up
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| But I’m almost certain that I’ll be denied
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| Closer and closer he gets and to my surprise
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| He stops all the digging and fixes his eyes
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| on me
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| He pulled me up and wiped off the dust
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| but then he saw the crack in my side
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| and I thought he would put me right back
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| No, into his cart and close to his heart
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| He treasured me, as he pushed me through the junkyard gates
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| Who is this man that he can see, value in me
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| Who is this man that he can hear, the plight that I plead
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| Yes, we went through town, away from the junkyard
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| where I was found
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| We passed the place where I broke down
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| We going somewhere that’s safe and sound
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| And to my surprise, we came right to the biggest |
| mansion around
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| This man is not a street bum, what he wears, is a disguise
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| He took me inside and fixed me up with new parts and supplies
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| Oh this man, must be the maker for which I’ve cried
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| Who else would believe in me?
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| a broken instrument, that died
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| I’ve never known music to be so fine
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| the way he plays me is so divine
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| The whole world hears us together and starts to cry
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| So let my sound forever be, a testament of
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| How the maker can restore value to the life of a broken instrument |