| I’ll apologize but I’ll try to make it unclear
|
| And I love this city but I’m really not from here
|
| Now I gotta leave this town as a washed up stuntman
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| In a beat up coupe I imagine is a Mustang
|
| There’s a voice in my head singing out turn it around
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| But I’m on a highway honey tearing up the East bound
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| There’s a man out there smiling like a dying king
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| Laughing at my soul, searching for anything
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| And I’ve got mine
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| I am a rock, I am an isle
|
| And I got mine
|
| I’m shaking ground, I’m faking found
|
| In my little town
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| These days I’m searching for the great unknown
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| Wondering if Paul Simon ever had it good alone
|
| Find me a place that can make a couple tables turn
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| That’s warm all winter with a couple more bridges to burn
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| And I am a child yet I’ve got to let my spirit roam
|
| A few more years before I’ll hitch a ride home
|
| I’ve got bones to break and miles to go alone
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| One day I’ll start writing like I’m Leonard Cohen
|
| And I’ve got mine
|
| I am a rock, I am an isle
|
| And I got mine
|
| I’m shaking ground, I’m faking found
|
| In my little town
|
| I’m still tall and made of stone
|
| But I still can’t rest on my own
|
| I’m still tall and made of stone
|
| But I still can’t rest on my own
|
| I’m on my own |