| Harold Land with a wave of his hand said goodbye to all that
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| He paid his bills and stopped the milk, then put on his hat
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| He tried to say his last farewells as quickly as he could
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| Promising that he would return, but doubted that he would
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| Doubted that he would, doubted
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| Now he’s marching soldiers in the rain as on to war they rode
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| A long thin line of human mind, damnation as their load
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| In the mud in coldness dark, he’d shiver out his fear
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| What disappointing sights he’d seen instead of ones so dear
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| Instead of ones so dear, so dear
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| Going home, He’s going home to the land he loved so well
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| Going home, He fought for two years, never fell
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| Going home, He’s going home
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| Going home. |
| He’s going home
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| Harold Land with a wave of his hand stood sadly on the stage
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| Clutching red ribbons from a badge, but he didn’t look his age
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| Only two years had passed between his leaving home and back
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| He had lost his love and youth while
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| Leading the attack, leading the attack
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| In conversation it could be said
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| Well after war your heart is dead
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| Well it’s not hard to understand
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| There is no heart in Harold Land |