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(Nanci Griffith) |
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There's a light out on the freeway,says it's time to go |
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I'm wasting my time counting stains on a barroom floor |
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Thinking 'bout my hometown and the friends I'll leave behind |
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Mostly 'bout the man who writes his songs with smiling rhymes |
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And I'm holding on to a smokey view of his dreams in the midnight light |
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Michael counts his songs in the years of wasted miles |
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I used to think he was really part of that fantasy in rhyme |
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But looking back on all his tunes of butterflies and sunshine, |
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There was only one about the man he kept inside |
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About the time he crossed the line and let a tear come to his eye. |
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I used to hide out in his pretty smile, |
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And hope it would shine me through the morrow. |
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Until I learned the way it feels to be the man |
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Who sings the world a smile without a soul to share his sorrow. |
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The light here at the freeway, well, it's turning green to gold, |
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The stains on that barroom floor ten miles back down the road. |
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Thinking 'bout how that old bar brought Michael back to mind, |
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And how I can sing his blues and be smiling here inside... |
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I guess a weary soul will always sing Michael's smiling rhymes. |
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I used to hide out in his pretty smile, |
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And hope it would shine me through the morrow. |
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Until I learned the way it feels to be the man |
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Who sings the world a smile without a soul to share his sorrow. |