| Hey Mac, you’ll never guess what happened while you were away
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| What’s been happening to you started happening to me
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| I found your old letters
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| Shoved inside High Tide and Green Grass
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| Last night
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| And I hope you don’t mind
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| But I stole the opening line for a song of mine
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| And Mac, it’s true
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| If I could write like you
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| Well I’m sure sometimes I’d go a little cuckoo, too
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| I know the winters are hard in Maine
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| And your songs about lobstermen
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| Well I know they don’t pay
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| But it’s hard down here, too
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| Trying to make a living writing about snakes and cockatoos
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| And it made me mad
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| When they used your song in that Volvo ad
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| And you barely got a dime
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| I said «Mac, it’s not fair»
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| You said «Walt, I really don’t care»
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| As you filled out your W-9
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| I know your Irish heart is strong
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| And rich with rhymes and noble lines from ancient songs
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| But again it comes undone
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| And the dumb rum just rots your gut and twists your tongue
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| Now with a marble in my throat
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| I watch those ferryboats
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| And button high my long black coat
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| 'Cause the season ends
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| And summer friends
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| Leave for the mainland
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| Yeah, the season ends
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| But old dogs like us, my friend
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| We ain’t going nowhere, man
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| Yeah the season ends
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| And summer friends
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| Leave for the mainland
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| The season ends
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| But old dogs like us, my friend
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| We ain’t going nowhere, man
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| We ain’t going nowhere, man |