| I was visiting my dad in the state of MD
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| We’re sittin' on the couch watching AMC
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| He’s still at the house in which he raised me
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| Still spends most of his time watching TV
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| An old western or a musical with Fred Astaire
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| Every commercial they’re talkin' about Medicare
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| JJ from Good Times is the spokesman
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| I wonder how much cash it took
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| For them to coax him into doin' it
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| Times change, people age
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| Both in real life and on the airwaves
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| I got up off the couch, walked out the front door
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| My old neighborhood I had an urge to explore
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| Up the driveway to the cul de sac
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| Took a look around and it all came back
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| Nostalgia ran through me and it tickled my soul
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| Took a deep breath and embarked on a stroll
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| A long time resident sees me and waves
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| From his driveway, I remember the day it was paved
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| The asphalt is cracking at a similar rate
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| And in a similar design as the lines on his face
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| He said his wife had passed and he asked me to pardon him
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| For the unkempt state that his yard was in
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| See, he kept the grass cut be she had done the gardenin'
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| The large amount of weeds told the story of how hard it’s been
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| «T was nice talkin'
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| To you,» I told him then I kept on walkin'
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| The next house down was very familiar
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| A memory played in my brain with an old movie filter
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| A scene of when my childhood friend lived there
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| I see the old couch, the old tables and chair
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| I see my friend as a child, his mother and his siblings
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| A family from the past that once really existed
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| If I had dreamt it all it wouldn’t be much different
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| I pass by several houses in a row
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| Each one reminds me of a person I know
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| The rental property where they just let the weeds grow
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| Is like my homie Matt who kinda let himself go
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| Shutters, shingles, siding and bricks
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| Some are like new, some really need to be fixed
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| Normal wear and tear as a house gets older
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| That squeaky sliding door kinda reminds me of my shoulder
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| A teenage kid drives by way too fast
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| Rebellious music of his generation on blast
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| Very reminiscent of myself of the past
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| The drums are more trappy but the rap’s just as crass
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| Miles after miles my childhood is embedded in everything that I pass
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| The green street signs may be startin' to rust
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| But the grass is the same shade of green, it’s lush
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| It compliments the yellow on the passing school bus
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| As it slows down out the red stop sign juts
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| And the door of the bus is like my tear ducts
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| My eyes water up and out the kids jump
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| Each hit the street as the tears hit my cheeks
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| I can’t explain why it makes me cry, I’m just weak
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| The sun starts droppin', the sky gets less bright
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| The streetlights all start to light
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| Pretty soon I’ll be in the streetlight stage of my life
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| Where I start headin' home and day turns to night
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| I won’t be around but this neighborhood might
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| Along with this song I was able to write
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| That walk built me up quite a healthy appetite
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| I’m so lucky I get to have dinner with my dad tonight |