| I caught you with him
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| On them damp, slick, sticky, satin sheets
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| Then I packed my things and then I hit the streets
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| 87 southbound, to San Anton'
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| You got your baby, I got no home
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| The pavements burnin', at a hundred and two
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| I don’t need to hear no more excuses, but I don’t need you
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| Lord the sun keeps beatin' me down, and it’s hotter’n hell
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| And if I’m a lucky I’ll catch a ride, but you can’t never tell
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| I’d rather be here with the bugs and flies, then back there hearin' your alibis
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| I heard all that I’m gonna hear you say, I gonna take my pride and go the other
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| way
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| 87 southbound, to San Anton'
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| It’s getting late out, I’m forty miles from home
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| The rain keeps a fallin', like the tears of my eyes
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| Just tryin' to wash away the hurt from all your lies
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| (yeah daddy)
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| And lightnin' streaks across the evenin' sky
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| And if I’m a lucky (it'll make you?) laid right down and die
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| I know when the morning comes, I’ll still be a walking son-of-a-gun
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| When afternoon comes rolls around, I’ll have ten more miles and one more town
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| (Repeat Chorus)
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| No I don’t need to hear no more excuses, but I don’t love you |